Dnrn 


Columbia  Wini\}tviitp 
in  tfje  Citp  of  i^eto  gorb 


LIBRARY 


GIVEN    BY 


GIFT  OF 
H.  W.  WILSOfsf 


\^ 


OVER  THERE 
AND   BACK 


1st  Lieut.  Joseph  S.  Smith,  U.  S.  A. 


OVER  THERE 
AND   BACK 

IN  THREE  UNIFORMS 

Being  the  Experiences  of   an  American 

Boy   in  the    Canadian,    British  and 

American  Armies  at  the  Front  and 

through   No    Man's    Land 


By 

Lieut.  Joseph  S.  Smith 

Author  of 
"Trench  Warfare" 


New  York 

E.  P.  Dutton  &  Go. 

681  Fifth  Avenue 


GIFT  OF 
H.  Vv.  WILSON 
MAR  2  2  1929 


Copyright,  1918 
By  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 


340.  :3I 


Printed  in   the   United  States  of  America 


TO 
THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  PAL 

2nd   Lieut.    C.  G.    ROSS 

KILLED  IN  ACTION  AT  MONCHY 
APRIL  2^,   191 7 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  Page 
1st  Lieut.  Joseph  S.  Smith,  U.  S.  A Frontispiece 

The  Author  in  His  Uniform  as  a  Private  in  the 

Canadian  Overseas  Force 14 

A  Wiring  Party  Surprised  by  a  Star  Shell 88 

The  Bull  Ring 96 

Red  Cross  Stretcher-bearers  at  Work 178 

Their  First  Experience  of  Gas 180 

The  Author  in  His  Uniform  as  2nd  Lieutenant 

in  a  Scotch  Regiment 192 

The  StafI  Going  on  a  Round  of  Inspection  Behind 

the  Front  Line 220 

"Good-by,  Old  Man."    The  Bombardier  and  His 

Dying  Friend 224 


-^A. 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

Lieutenant  Joseph  S.  Smith  is  an  American, 
born  in  Philadelphia.  He  enlisted  in  the 
Twenty-ninth  Vancouver  Battalion  in  Canada 
in  1 914  and  went  to  France  with  the  Second 
Canadian  division  to  be  sent  over  seas.  He 
served  with  the  Canadians  until  August,  191 6, 
when  he  received  a  commission  in  the  British 
army  and  was  attached  to  the  Royal  Scots. 
He  was  at  the  front  with  this  regiment  until 
August,  1 91 7,  when  he  resigned  his  commis- 
sion to  come  home  and  put  on  the  uniform 
of  his  own  country.  He  is  now  an  officer  in 
the  army  of  the  United  States. 

During  his  three  years  of  fighting  he  has 
been  through  every  big  battle  on  the  British 
end  of  the  Western  front,  including  St.  Eloi, 
the  Somme,  the  Ancre  and  Arras. 


INTRODUCTION 

In  August,  1 9 14,  I  was  a  cowboy  on  a 
ranch  in  the  interior  of  British  Columbia. 
How  good  a  cowboy  I  would  not  undertake 
to  say,  because  if  there  were  any  errands  off 
the  ranch  the  foreman  seemed  better  able 
to  spare  me  for  them  than  any  one  else  in 
the  outfit. 

One  ambition,  and  one  only,  possessed  me 
in  those  days.  And  it  was  not  to  own  the 
ranch!  All  in  the  world  I  wanted  was  to 
accumulate  money  enough  to  carry  me  to 
San  Francisco  when  the  Panama  exposition 
opened  in  the  autumn.  After  that  I  didn't 
care.  It  would  be  time  enough  to  worry 
about  another  job  when  I  had  seen  the  fair. 

Ordinarily  I  was  riding  the  range  five 
days  in  the  week.  Saturdays  I  was  sent  on 
a  thirty-five  mile  round  trip  for  the  mail. 
It  was  the  most  delightful  day  of  them  all 

9 


INTRODUCTION 


for  me.  The  trail  lay  down  the  valley  of 
the  Fraser  and  although  I  had  been  riding 
it  for  months  it  still  wove  a  spell  over  me 
that  never  could  be  broken.  Slipping  rap- 
idly by  as  though  escaping  to  the  sea  from 
the  grasp  of  the  hills  that  hemmed  it  in 
on  all  sides  the  river  always  fascinated  me. 
It  was  new  every  time  I  reached  its  edge. 

An  early  Saturday  morning  in  August 
found  me  jogging  slowly  along  the  trail  to 
Dog  Creek.  Dog  Creek  was  our  post  office 
and  trading  center.  This  morning,  how- 
ever, my  mind  was  less  on  the  beauties  of 
the  Fraser  than  on  the  Dog  Creek  hotel. 
Every  week  I  had  my  dinner  there  before 
starting  in  mid-afternoon  on  my  return  to 
the  ranch,  and  this  day  had  succeeded  one 
of  misunderstanding  with  "cookie"  wherein 
all  the  boys  of  our  outfit  had  come  off  sec- 
ond best.  I  was  hungry  and  that  dinner 
at  the  hotel  was  going  to  taste  mighty  good. 

Out  there  on  the  range  we  had  heard 
rumors  of  a  war  in  Europe.    We  all  talked 

10 


INTRODUCTION 


it  over  in  the  evening  and  decided  it  was 
another  one  of  those  fights  that  were  always 
starting  in  the  Balkans.  One  had  just  been 
finished  a  few  months  before  and  we 
thought  it  was  about  time  another  was 
underway  so  we  gave  the  matter  no  par- 
ticular thought.  But  when  I  got  within 
sight  of  Dog  Creek  I  knew  something  was 
up.  The  first  thing  I  heard  was  that  some- 
body had  retreated  from  Mons  and  that  the 
Germans  were  chasing  them.  So,  the  Ger- 
mans were  fighting  anyway. 

Then  a  big  Indian  came  up  to  me  as  I 
was  getting  off  my  pony  and  told  me  Eng- 
land's big  white  chief  was  going  to  war,  or 
had  gone.  He  wasn't  certain  which,  but  he 
was  going  too.    Would  I? 

I  laughed  at  him,  "What  do  you  mean, 
go  to  war?''  I  asked  him. 

I  wasn't  English;  I  wasn't  Canadian.  I 
was  from  the  good  old  U.  S.  A.  and  from 
all  we  could  understand  the  States  were 
neutral.    So,  I  reasoned,  I  ought  to  be  neu- 

II 


INTRODUCTION 


tral  too,  and  I  went  in  to  see  what  there 
might  be  to  eat. 

There  was  plenty  of  excitement  in  the 
dining  room.  Under  its  influence  I  began 
to  look  at  the  thing  in  a  different  light. 
While  I  was  an  alien,  I  had  lived  in  Can- 
ada. I  had  enjoyed  her  hospitality.  Much 
of  my  education  was  acquired  in  a  Canadian 
school.  'Canadians  were  among  my  dearest 
friends.  Some  of  these  very  fellows,  there 
in  Dog  Creek,  were  "going  down"  to  enlist. 

All  the  afternoon  we  argued  about  it. 
Politics,  economics,  diplomacy;  none  of 
them  entered  into  the  question.  In  fact  we 
hadn't  the  faintest  idea  what  the  war  was 
all  about.  Our  discussion  hinged  solely  on 
what  we,  personally,  ought  to  do.  England 
was  at  war.  She  had  sent  out  a  call  to  all 
the  Empire  for  men;  for  help.  Dog  Creek 
heard  and  was  going  to  answer  that  call. 
Even  if  I  were  an  alien  I  had  been  in  that 
district  for  more  than  a  year  and  I  owed 
it  to  Dog  Creek  and  the  district  to  join  up 
with  the  rest. 


INTRODUCTION 


By  that  time  I  wanted  to  go.  I  was  crazy 
to  go!  It  would  be  great  to  see  London 
and  maybe  Paris  and  some  of  the  other  fam- 
ous old  towns — if  the  war  lasted  long 
enough  for  us  to  get  over  there.  I  began 
to  bubble  over  with  enthusiasm,  just  think- 
ing about  it.  So  I  made  an  appointment 
with  some  of  the  boys  for  the  next  evening, 
rode  back  to  the  ranch  and  threw  the  mail 
and  my  job  at  the  foreman. 

A  week  later  we  were  in  Vancouver. 
Then  things  began  to  get  plainer — to  some 
of  the  fellows.  We  heard  of  broken 
treaties,  "scraps  of  paper,"  "Kultur,"  the 
rights  of  nations,  big  and  small,  "freedom 
of  the  seas,"  and  other  phrases  that  meant 
less  than  nothing  to  most  of  us.  It  was 
enough  for  me,  then,  that  the  country  which 
had  given  me  the  protection  of  its  laws 
wanted  to  help  England.  I  trusted  the  gov- 
ernment to  know  what  it  was  doing. 

Before  we  were  in  town  an  hour  we 
found  ourselves  at  a  recruiting  office.  By 
the  simple  expedient  of  moving  my  birth- 
is 


INTRODUCTION 


place  a  few  hundred  miles  north  I  became 
a  Canadian  and  a  member  of  the  expe- 
ditionary force — a  big  word  with  a  big 
meaning. 

Christmas  came  and  I  was  in  a  well- 
trained  battalion  of  troops  with  no  more 
knowledge  of  the  war  than  the  retreat  from 
Mons,  the  battles  of  the  Marne  and  the 
Aisne  and  an  occasional  newspaper  report 
of  the  capture  of  a  hundred  thousand  troops 
here  and  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand 
casualties  somewhere  else.  We  knew,  at 
that  rate,  it  couldn't  possibly  last  until  we 
got  to  the  other  side,  but  we  prayed  loudly 
that  it  would. 

In  April  we  heard  of  the  gassing  of  the 
first  Canadians  at  Ypres.  Then  the  casualty 
lists  from  that  field  arrived  and  hit  Van- 
couver with  a  thud.  Instantly  a  change 
came  over  the  city.  Before  that  day,  war 
had  been  romance;  a  thing  far  away,  about 
which  to  read  and  over  which  to  wave  flags. 
It  was  intangible,  impersonal.    It  was  the 

14 


f 


h. 


The  Author  in  His  Uniform  as  a  Private  in  the  Canadian 
Overseas  Force 


INTRODUCTION 


same  attitude  the  States  exhibited  in  the  au- 
tumn of  '17.  Then  suddenly  it  became  real. 
This  chap  and  that  chap;  a  neighbor  boy, 
a  fellow  from  the  next  block  or  the  next 
desk.  Dead!  Gassed!  This  was  war; 
direct,  personal,  where  you  could  count  the 
toil  among  your  friends. 

Personally,  I  thought  that  what  the  Ger- 
mans had  done  was  a  terrible  thing  and  I 
wondered  what  kind  of  people  they  might 
be  that  they  could,  without  warning,  deliver 
such  a  foul  blow.  In  a  prize  ring  the 
Kaiser  would  have  lost  the  decision  then 
and  there.  We  wondered  about  gas  and 
discussed  it  by  the  hour  in  our  barracks. 
Some  of  us,  bigger  fools  than  the  rest,  in- 
sisted that  the  German  nation  would  repu- 
diate its  army.  But  days  went  by  and  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  occurred. 

It  was  then  I  began  to  take  my  soldiering 
a  little  more  seriously.  If  a  nation  wanted 
to  win  a  war  so  badly  that  it  would  damn 
its  good  name  for  ever  by  using  means  ruled 

15 


INTRODUCTION 


by  all  humanity  as  beyond  the  bounds  of 
civilized  warfare,  it  must  have  a  very  big 
object  in  view.  And  I  started — late  it  is 
true — to  obtain  some  clue  to  those  objects. 

May  found  us  at  our  port  of  embarkation 
for  the  voyage  to  England.  The  news  of 
the  Lusitania  came  over  the  wires  and  that 
evening  our  convoy  steamed.  For  the  first 
time,  I  believe,  I  fully  realized  I  was  a 
soldier  in  the  greatest  war  of  all  the  ages. 

Between  poker,  ^'blackjack"  and  "crown 
and  anchor"  with  the  crew,  we  talked  over 
the  two  big  things  that  had  happened  in  our 
soldier  lives — gas  and  the  Lusitania.  And 
to  these  we  later  added  liquid  fire. 

Our  arguments,  our  logic,  may  have  been 
elemental,  but  I  insist  they  struck  at  the 
root.  I  may  sum  them  up  thus:  Germany 
was  not  using  the  methods  of  fighting  that 
could  be  countenanced  by  a  civilized  nation. 
As  the  nation  stood  behind  its  army  in  all 
this  barbarism  there  must  be  something  in- 
herently lacking  in  it  despite  its  wonderful 

16 


INTRODUCTION 


music,  its  divine  poetry,  its  record  in  the 
sciences.  It,  too,  must  be  barbarian  at 
heart.  We  agreed  that  if  it  should  win  this 
war  it  would  be  very  uncomfortable  to 
belong  to  one  of  the  allied  nations,  or  even 
to  live  in  the  world  at  all,  since  it  was  cer- 
tain German  manners  and  German  methods 
would  not  improve  with  victory.  And  we, 
as  a  battalion,  were  ready  to  take  our  places 
in  France  to  back  up  our  words  with  deeds. 

A  week  or  so  later  we  landed  in  England. 
A  marked  change  had  come  over  the  men 
since  the  day  we  left  Halifax.  Then  most 
of  us  regarded  the  whole  war,  or  our  part 
in  it,  as  more  or  less  of  a  lark.  On  land- 
ing we  were  still  for  a  lark,  but  something 
else  had  come  into  our  consciousness.  We 
were  soldiers  fighting  for  a  cause — a  cause 
clear  cut  and  well  defined — the  saving  of 
the  world  from  a  militarily  mad  country 
without  a  conscience. 

At  our  camp  in  England  we  saw  those 
boys  of  the  first  division  who  had  stood  in 

17 


INTRODUCTION 


their  trenches  in  front  of  Ypres  one  bright 
April  morning  and  watched  with  great 
curiosity  a  peculiar  looking  bank  of  fog 
roll  toward  them  from  the  enemy's  line. 
It  rolled  into  their  trenches  and  in  a  second 
those  men  were  choking  and  gasping  for 
breath.  Their  lungs  filled  with  the  rotten 
stuff  and  they  were  dying  by  dozens  in  the 
most  terrible  agony,  beating  off  even  as  they 
died  a  part  of  the  ''brave"  Prussian  army  as 
it  came  up  behind  those  gas  clouds;  came  up 
with  gas  masks  on  and  bayonets  dripping 
with  the  blood  of  men  lying  on  the  ground 
fighting,  true,  but  for  breath.  A  great 
army  that  Prussian  army!  And  what  a 
"glorious"  victory!  Truly  should  the  Hun 
be  proud! 

So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  Germany  did 
not  lose  the  war  at  the  Battle  of  the  Marne, 
at  the  Aisne  or  at  the  Yser.  She  lost  it 
there  at  Ypres,  on  April  22,  1915. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  when  I  say  our 
eagerness  to  work,  to  complete  our  train- 
ing, to  learn  how  to  kill  so  we  could  take 
18 


INTRODUCTION 


our  place  in  the  line  and  help  fight  pff  those 
mad  people,  grew  by  the  hour.  They 
stiffened  our  backs  and  made  us  fighting 
mad.  We  saw  what  they  had  done  to  our 
boys  from  Canada ;  they  and  their  gas.  The 
effect  on  our  battalion  was  the  effect  on  the 
whole  army  and,  I  am  quite  sure,  on  the  rest 
of  the  world.  They  put  themselves  beyond 
the  pale.  They  compelled  the  world  to 
look  on  them  as  mad  dogs  and  to  treat  them 
as  mad  dogs. 

We  trained  in  England  until  August 
when  we  went  to  France.  To  all  outward 
appearances  we  were  still  happy,  carefree 
soldiers,  all  out  for  a  good  time.  We  were 
happy!  We  were  happy  we  were  there, 
and  down  deep  there  was  solid  satisfaction, 
not  on  account  of  the  different-colored 
books  that  were  issuing  from  every  chan- 
cellory in  Europe  but  from  a  feeling 
rooted  in  white  men's  hearts,  backed  by  the 
knowledge  of  Germany's  conduct,  that  we 
were  there  in  a  righteous  cause. 

Our  second  stop  in  our  march  toward 

19 


INTRODUCTION 


the  line  was  a  little  village  which  had  been 
occupied  by  the  Boches  in  their  mad  dash 
toward  Paris.  Our  billet  was  a  farm  just 
on  the  edge  of  the  village.  The  housewife 
permitted  us  in  her  kitchen  to  do  our  cook- 
ing, at  the  same  time  selling  us  coffee.  We 
stayed  there  two  or  three  days  and  became 
quite  friendly  with  her  even  if  she  did  scold 
us  for  our  muddy  boots. 

Two  pretty  little  kiddies  played  around 
the  house,  got  in  the  way,  were  scolded  and 
spanked  and  in  the  next  instant  loved  to 
death  by  Madame.  Then  she  would  parade 
them  before  a  picture  of  a  clean-cut  looking 
Frenchman  in  the  uniform  of  the  army  and 
say  something  about  ''apres  la  guerre." 

In  a  little  crib  to  one  side  of  the  room  was 
a  tiny  baby,  neglected  by  Madame  except 
that  she  bathed  and  fed  it.  The  neglect  was 
so  pronounced  that  our  curiosity  was 
aroused.  The  explanation  came  through 
the  estaminet  gossip  and  later  from  Ma- 
dame herself. 

so 


INTRODUCTION 


A  Hun  captain  of  cavalry  had  stayed 
there  a  few  days  in  August,  '14,  and  not 
only  had  he  allowed  his  detachment  full 
license  in  the  village  but  had  abused  his 
position  in  the  house  in  the  accustomed 
manner  of  his  bestial  class. 

As  Madame  told  us  her  story;  how  her 
husband  had  rushed  off  to  his  unit  with  the 
first  call  for  reserves,  leaving  her  alone  with 
two  children,  and  how  the  blond  beast  had 
come,  our  fists  clenched  and  we  boiled  with 
rage. 

That  is  German  war!    But  it  is  not  all. 

What  will  be  the  stories  that  come  out 
of  what  is  now  occupied  France? 

This  French  woman's  story  was  new  to  us 
then  but,  like  other  things  in  the  war,  as 
we  moved  through  the  country  it  became 
common  enough  with  here  and  there  a  re- 
volting detail  more  horrible  than  anything 
we  had  heard  before. 


21 


INTRODUCTION 


Now  and  then  Germany  expresses  aston- 
ishment at  the  persistence  of  the  British  and 
the  French.  They  are  a  funny  people,  the 
Germans.  There  are  so  many  things  they 
do  not,  perhaps  cannot,  understand.  They 
never  could  understand  why  Americans, 
such  as  myself,  who  enlisted  in  a  spirit  of 
adventure  and  with  not  a  single  thought  on 
the  justice  of  the  cause,  could  experience 
such  a  marked  change  of  feeling  as  to 
regard  this  conflict  as  the  most  holy  crusade 
in  which  a  man  could  engage. 

It  is  a  holy  crusade !  Never  in  the  history 
of  the  world  was  the  cause  of  right  more 
certainly  on  the  side  of  an  army  than  it 
is  to-day  on  the  side  of  the  Allies.  We  who 
have  been  through  the  furnace  of  France 
know  this. 

I  only  say  what  every  other  American 
who  has  been  fighting  under  an  alien  flag, 
said  when  our  country  came  in:  ^Thank 
God  we  have  done  it.  Some  boy,  Wilson, 
believe  me!" 


"We^re  offP' 

"Y're  a  blinkin'  liar!    We  ain't  moved F' 

"We  have!    Come  and  see!" 

So  Tommy  and  I  clattered  toward  the 
deck  to  find  out,  but  alas!  an  irritable  ser- 
geant ordered  us  back. 

"You  want  to  get  us  torpedoed,  you 
blamed  fools,"  he  called.  "Down  below 
with  them  cigarettes." 

So  Tommy  and  I  knew  we  were  at 
last  crossing  to  France.  We  tripped  as 
lightly  as  new  hobnailed  boots  would  let  us 
down  the  companion  stairs  and  into  the 
smoking  room.  Well  named  it  was!  A 
Shanghai  opium  den  would  have  looked 
like  a  daisy-covered  field  beside  it.  Squat- 
ting and  squeezed  into  that  little  place 
were  a  company  of  men,  every  one  smoking. 
All  the  portholes  were  closed  and  there  was 
not  a  ventilator  to  be  seen. 

23 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


^^Hey,  fellows,  we're  off,"  Tommy 
shouted. 

"Off  our  nuts,"  growled  the  company 
grouch.  "Talk  about  your  holes  of  Cal- 
cutta!" 

"Ain't  no  motion,"  the  company  "boob" 
chirped. 

The  old  tub  lurched  before  a  sea. 

"God  a'mighty,  we're  torpedoed!"  some- 
one groaned. 

"Too  bad  you  ain't,"  retorted  the  grouch. 

So,  good-naturedly  gibing,  expectant  and 
excited,  wc  lay  there  and  were  carried  out 
and  away  across  the  Channel  toward  the 
Great  Adventure.  And  the  further  Eng- 
land dropped  behind  the  rougher  our  lot 
became. 

"Thank  God  I  didn't  go  in  to  be  a  sailor," 
came  a  scared  voice  from  a  corner.  "Oh, 
oh,  I'm  sick!    Oh,  fellows,  quit  smoking!'* 

Those  of  us  who  could  smoke  paid  no 
attention,  and  those  who  were  not  smoking 
were  too  sick  to  notice  anything  else. 

24 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Coming  down  to  the  port,  we  had  had 
a  long  march — fourteen  miles — with  full 
equipment  and  a  lot  of  nice  new  clothes. 
Now,  the  longer  a  man  marches,  the  more 
everything  that  he  is  not  actually  wearing 
seems  perfectly  useless  baggage.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  Tommy  and  I  shed  on  that 
long  road  quite  a  bit  of  stuff  that  cost  the 
government  real  money.  Who  among  the 
inhabitants  of  that  particular  bit  of  country 
benefited  by  our  added  comfort  we  didn't 
know.  Furthermore,  we  didn't  care.  But 
it  was  very  necessary,  now  that  the  march 
was  over,  to  replenish  our  kit  before  the 
next  inspection,  and  this  seemed  to  be  the 
right  moment. 

Quietly  we  began  to  look  around  under 
the  cloud  of  smoke  for  some  one  who  was 
asleep  or,  equally  good  for  our  purpose, 
some  one  with  that  don't-care-if-I-die  look, 
from  which  there  could  be  no  escaping. 
We  found  them — two  chaps  close  together 
— and  completed  our  kit  just  as  our  com- 

25 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


pany  officer  called  down:  ^'Kits  on,  boys; 
we  are  coming  into  dock."  And  for  the 
first  time  in  the  nine  months  we  had  known 
him,  his  voice  seemed  to  reflect  a  bit  of 
excitement. 

We  scrambled  into  our  kits  and  up  the 
stairs  onto  the  deck,  eager  for  the  first 
glimpse  of  France. 

It  was  dark,  and  I  don't  know  just  what 
we  had  expected  to  see,  but  I  was  disap- 
pointed. There,  in  front  of  us,  was  an 
ordinary  shed,  lit  with  funny  looking  lamps. 
It  was  just  such  a  pier  shed  as  you  will 
see  in  New  York  or  Seattle.  It  didn't  look 
at  all  as  France  should  look.  To  me, 
France  was  a  land  of  romance,  a  land  of 
beauty  and  laughter  and  green  hills  and 
brilliant  blue  skies.  I  was  willing  to  make 
some  allowances  for  the  months  of  war,  and 
still  it  would  fit  into  my  dreams.  But  that 
old,  dreary-looking,  black  shed  spoiled 
everything.  To  complete  the  disillusion 
the  sergeant  bruskly  asked  me  if  I  was  a 

26 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


"bloomin'  Thomas  Cook  tourist."  So  I 
hustled  along  until  I  found  Tommy  sliding 
slowly  past  a  French  soldier. 

"Say!"  he  whispered.  "Ain't  that  the 
funniest  looking  gink  you  ever  saw?  Look 
at  that  heluva  bayonet,  too." 

We  stopped  until  our  sergeant  should 
catch  up  with  us,  and  gazed  at  the  French 
"Tommy."  He  was  middle-aged— old,  he 
seemed — and  funny  looking,  too,  as  he  stood 
there  under  a  lamp  with  his  rifle  at  the 
shoulder  and  a  long  thin  bayonet  sticking 
on  the  end.    We  grinned,  and  he  grinned. 

"Bon  jour,"  said  Tommy,  regardless  of 
the  fact  that  it  was  half-past  two  in  the 
morning. 

"Hello,  Tommee,"  was  the  smiling  reply. 

"Holy  gee!  Can  you  beat  that?  He 
knows  my  name,"  said  the  astonished 
Tommy. 

"Come  on,  you  men.  Get  out  of  this." 
The  sergeant  was  back  again  and  we  could 
exchange  no  further  amenities,  but  Tommy 

27 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


always  believed  that  French  Johnny  knew 
his  name. 

We  caught  up  with  our  platoon  just  as  it 
was  being  surrounded.  The  women  of  the 
place  had  turned  out  with  baskets  of  apples 
to  sell.  Tommy  ''bon  joured"  again  and 
added  to  the  Babel  in  the  little  groups  we 
formed  while  waiting  to  march  ofif.  The 
French  girls  chatted  with  us  in  broken  Eng- 
lish and  we  were  astonished  to  see  that  they 
spoke  better  English  than  we  did  French. 

After  a  bit  of  puffing  and  panting  on  the 
part  of  our  officers  we  moved  off,  following 
a  road  by  the  river,  a  little,  bow-legged 
Frenchman  with  a  lantern  acting  as  guide. 

The  tramp  of  a  thousand  pair  of  feet  on 
block  paving  makes  quite  a  row  and  as  we 
marched  along  windows  wxnt  up  all  down 
the  street  and  all  sorts  of  unintelligible  ques- 
tions were  hurled  at  us.  It  made  me  think 
of  the  ride  of  Paul  Revere.  We  started  to 
sing,  but  the  colonel  stopped  us,  and  it  was 
a  good  thing  he  did,  for  just  then  we  turned 

28 


0\^R  THERE  AND  BACK 


a  corner  and  saw  the  fellows  in  front  grad- 
ually going  into  the  air  until  we,  in  the  rank 
behind,  were  looking  at  the  backs  of  their 
knees.  That  hill  is  famous  all  through  the 
army. 

^'Strike  me  pink!"  gasped  Tommy  in  a 
few  minutes.  But  he  couldn't  say  another 
word.  Breathless  and  speechless,  we  strug- 
gled to  the  top  and  the  camp. 

It  was  a  canvas  camp,  with  big  oil  flares 
burning  for  light,  and  the  wind  swept  the 
flames  toward  us.  To  me  it  seemed  as 
though  great  fiery  arms,  symbolic  of  what 
was  waiting  for  us  not  far  beyond,  were 
stretched  out  to  welcome  us.  Told  off  to 
our  tents,  we  threw  aside  our  packs  and 
dropped  down  pretty  much  exhausted.  I 
had  just  got  nicely  settled  when  along  came 
the  sergeant  with  his  flashlight.  He  was 
pulling  off  the  blanket  from  every  head.  He 
pulled  off  mine. 

^'You're  for  guard.  Fall  in  at  once,  light 
marching  order!" 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


How  that  man  loved  me! 

So  it  came  that  early  morning  found  me 
marching  up  and  down  the  edge  of  the  hill. 
Behind  me,  the  sun  was  just  peeping  over 
the  horizon.  Below,  the  town  unfolded 
itself,  the  steeple  of  the  big  cathedral  rising 
almost  to  the  level  of  the  camp.  Just  be- 
yond was  the  harbor  with  its  mosquito  fleet 
of  fishing  boats  and  the  old  transports  that 
had  brought  us  and  some  other  battalions 
safely  across  the  Channel,  already  taking  on 
their  cargo  of  leave  men,  joyfully  bound  for 
Blighty.  Off  in  the  distance  dozens  of 
locomotives,  long  trains  of  tiny  cars  behind 
them,  were  dashing  here  and  there  in  an 
aimless  sort  of  way. 

As  the  sun  crept  out  it  brought  with  it 
those  energetic  French  women  with  their 
apples,  chocolate  and  cigarettes,  until  the 
camp  was  swamped  under  them.  Shrewd 
and  sharp  as  a  razor  they  were  in  a  bargain 
and  they  cursed  loudly  and  fluently  in  Eng- 
lish, not  understanding  a  word  of  it. 

30 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


About  eleven  o'clock  we  fell  in  ready  to 
march  to  the  train  and  we  had  the  pleasure 
of  marching  down  that  hill.  As  we  moved 
along,  the  kiddies  followed,  singing  ^Tip- 
perary."  It  was  still  very  much  the  vogue 
then.  Their  quaint,  broken  English  made 
us  all  laugh.  Every  time  they  stopped  we 
cheered  and  then  they  would  start  all  over 
again. 

The  thing  that  struck  us  most  as  we  went 
off  through  the  town  was  the  amount  of 
black  that  was  worn.  Even  in  those  days 
there  seemed  to  be  scarcely  a  woman  that 
did  not  carry  about  with  her  this  badge  of 
mourning  for  a  man  who  had  paid  the  big 
price  for  La  Belle  France. 

We  were  too  excited,  though,  to  pay 
much  attention  even  to  this  evidence  of  war 
— an  excitement  the  townsfolk  did  not  seem 
to  share.  That  rather  disgusted  us.  They 
didn't  even  stop  on  the  sidewalk  to  look  as 
we  marched  by.  It  wasn't  because  they 
were  fed  up;  they  were  just  blase.  If  sing- 
si 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


ing  troops  had  not  marched  through  one 
day,  and  hospital  trains  had  not  come  in 
one  night,  then  great  would  have  been  the 
chatter  and  serious  would  have  been  the 
speculation  in  the  cafes  and  on  the  street 
corners. 

When  we  got  into  the  station  we  were 
halted  facing  our  carriages.  We  were 
luckier  than  most  of  the  battalions.  We  had 
passenger  cars.  Most  of  the  transport  con- 
sisted of  the  miniature  freight  cars.  They 
started  piling  us  in.  We  filled  the  compart- 
ments and  then  they  began  all  over  again 
until  by  comparison,  sardines  in  a  tin  were 
loose  in  a  swimming  pool. 

With  grunts  and  groans  and  creakings 
from  the  locomotive  we  pulled  out,  bound 
"up  the  line."  We  sang.  We  shouted  greet- 
ings to  everyone  we  passed.  We  threw  our 
iron  ration  biscuits  to  little  kiddies  that 
shouted  wildly  after  us,  ''Souvenir,  Cana- 
dian!" We  slept,  ate,  talked  and  groused, 
and  still  the  old  train  rumbled  along.    We 

32 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


passed  canals,  tree-lined  roads,  villages, 
camps,  other  trains;  troop  trains  that  an- 
swered our  shouts  with  cheers,  hospital 
trains  that  brought  us  to  silence  because  we 
were  awed  by  the  presence  of  men  who  had 
walked  forward  into  the  unknown  beyond 
and  had  come  back  mutilated. 

Here  and  there  we  passed  a  farm  with  an 
old,  broken-down  horse  and  a  boy  working 
in  a  field.  Again  there  were  aged,  crooked- 
backed  men  or  women  tilling  the  ground 
with  ancient  hoes,  lacking  even  an  ox. 

Finally  we  stopped.  Our  officers  ran 
along  the  train.  "All  out,"  they  shouted, 
and  we  scrambled  down.  The  train  pufifed 
away,  severing  our  last  connection  with 
Blighty. 

Again  it  was  "fall  in,"  again  march  off. 
So  deadly  monotonous  do  these  calls  become 
that  even  the  glamour  of  France  could  not 
take  away  the  monotony  of  them.  Away 
we  went,  already  tired  after  our  long 
journey. 

33 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


'Where  are  we  going?"  flew  up  and  down 
the  line. 

"Somewhere  in  France,"  the  grouch  an- 
swered. And  we  plodded  along  in  silence. 
Darkness  came,  and  off  in  the  distance  we 
could  see  an  occasional  light  twinkling.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  sardonic  wink. 

"Pass  it  back — two  more  kilos,"  came 
from  the  front. 

"Pass  it  back — what  the  blinking  blank  is 
a  kilo?"  was  the  answer. 

"Something  that  never  ends,"  interjected 
the  grouch. 

All  things  must  end,  though,  and  we 
greeted  with  a  very  feeble  cheer  our  com- 
pany commander's  order  to  halt  and  fall  out 
on  the  side  of  the  road.  He  passed  through 
the  gate  of  a  farmhouse  and  we  looked  at 
it  with  interest.  It  was  our  first  billet  in 
France.  We  followed  him  through  the  gate 
in  a  few  minutes  and  into  the  barn,  the 
floor  of  which  was  well  covered  with  straw. 
As  we  threw  off  our  kits  our  officer  in- 

34 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


formed  us  that  there  would  be  no  smoking 
in  the  bam  and  that  no  one  could  leave  the 
billet. 

Tommy  and  I,  not  being  chosen  for  sentry 
go,  promptly  started  out  to  find  something 
to  eat.  Right  across  the  road  was  another 
farmhouse  and  in  we  bounced.  We  thought 
maybe  we  wouldn't  understand  the  French 
word  for  ^^Come  in"  if  we  knocked,  so  we 
walked  right  in  and  were  greeted  by  the 
grouch  with  ''Say,  fellows,  what's  the 
French  for  meat?"  Not  knowing,  we 
couldn't  tell  him,  but  we  ''bon  joured"  to 
madame  and  her  family.  They  all  ''bon 
joured"  to  us  in  chorus. 

Tommy,  after  a  terrible  struggle,  man- 
aged to  enunciate  ''doo  pan,"  and  I 
pointed  to  my  mouth.  The  Madame  "com- 
preed"  and  produced  a  loaf  of  bread. 
''Beer,"  said  Tommy,  and  she  produced  it. 
Then  she  turned  loose  a  flood  of  French  on 
Tommy.  He  nearly  choked  as  it  dawned 
on  him  that  she  supposed  he  spoke  her  lan- 

35 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


guage.  When  she  stopped,  he  said,  "Can 
you  beat  it!"  and  she  started  again.  When 
she  stopped  for  want  of  breath  we  shook 
our  heads  and  answered  "No  compree." 
Disgusted  at  our  limitations  she  retired  to 
her  corner  and  family,  and  Tommy,  the 
grouch  and  I  sat  across  the  room  eating  our 
bread  and  meat  and  drinking  our  beer. 

Looking  around  the  place  I  suffered 
another  shock.  This  wasn't  France!  It  was 
just  the  kind  of  room  you  would  find  in  any 
other  part  of  the  world  and,  aside  from  the 
tongue,  we  might  have  found  the  family  in 
Alberta  or  South  Dakota  or  Oklahoma. 

I  can't  tell  you  what  I  expected  to  find, 
but  whatever  it  was,  it  wasn't  there. 

When  we  could  eat  no  more  we  laid  all 
our  money  on  the  table.  Madame  walked 
over  and  picked  out  some.  We  pocketed 
the  remainder,  bowed,  "bon  joured"  and 
left.  We  got  into  billets  again  all  right,  but 
we  had  lost  our  sleeping  places,  so  Tommy 
and  I  climbed  into  a  farmer's  wagon  out- 

36 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


side.  A  good  thing  we  did,  too.  Some  of 
Madame's  pigs  got  into  the  stable  with  the 
company  and  we  awoke  to  a  revielle  of 
squealing  pigs,  bellowing  men  and  voluble 
Frenchwomen.  My!  what  a  row!  Madame 
was  very  indignant  for  a  while  over  the 
treatment  her  pigs  had  received  but  she  soon 
got  over  it.  Those  pigs  were  destined  to 
cause  more  trouble,  however. 

After  a  two  days'  rest  we  prepared  to 
march  on  "up  the  line,"  and  it  was  then 
one  of  the  pigs  and  one  of  the  officers  elected 
to  send  us  away  with  a  grin.  We  had 
fallen  in  by  platoons  in  the  farmyard  and 
had  passed  inspection.  We  were  standing 
at  ease,  our  officer  in  front  of,  and  in  the 
center  of,  his  platoon.  (That  sounds  Irish 
but  it  isn't.)  Now,  British  army  regula- 
tions prescribe  that  when  a  soldier  stands 
at  ease  he  shall  carry  his  right  foot  twenty- 
seven  inches  to  his  right,  with  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back  when  he  has  no  rifle  and  not 
move  or  talk.     Eyes  must  be  front.     Our 

37 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


officer,  being  an  officer,  was  doing  all  this 
in  most  rigid  compliance  with  regulations. 
Of  course,  he  had  to  be  an  example  to  the 
platoon. 

Then,  without  warning,  along  came  a 
pig,  full  of  grunts  and  hunger.  He  passed 
down  the  front  of  our  line.  Not  liking  our 
looks,  he  right-turned  and  started  away, 
and  the  only  way  he  could  pick  out  to  evade 
us  was  between  our  officer's  legs.  He  got 
his  head  through,  but  found  then  that 
twenty-seven  inches  was  not  enough  for  the 
rest  of  him.  Before  the  officer  had  time  to 
think,  the  pig  gave  a  loud  "eee,"  started 
double  quick  and  the  officer  sat  on  the  ani- 
mal's back.  This  not  only  annoyed  but  it 
frightened  the  pig  so  it  became  a  third  rate 
imitation  of  a  bucking  broncho.  In  two 
bucks  our  young  commander  was  on  his 
nose  in  the  dirt  and  the  pig  ran  squealing 
away. 

We  laughed.  We  yelled.  Then  we  were 
disciplined  for  it.    But  we  were  on  the  last 

S8 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


long  leg  of  our  nine  months'  trip  from  Van- 
couver to  the  trenches  and  the  picture  of 
the  officer  and  the  pig  helped  us  mightily 
through  that  day's  march  and  many  another 
one.  And  that,  you  may  agree,  was  worth 
the  punishment. 


39 


II 


We  were  in  France!  No  one  could  deny 
it,  especially  when  we  tried  to  buy  anything 
in  the  shops.  Yet,  marching  along  the 
roads,  rows  of  tall,  straight  poplars  on  either 
side  and  a  wonderful  blue  sky  overhead, 
it  seemed  hard  to  realize  we  were  in  the 
heart  of  grim,  hideous  WAR.  We  were 
too  far  behind  the  lines  yet  to  see  anything 
of  the  war  as  it  was,  but  that  night  we  heard 
the  guns  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  dull 
and  far-distant  booming  that  caught  a  keen 
ear  or  two  in  the  ranks  and  then  in  a  few 
minutes  we  all  were  hearing  it.  If  we 
hadn't  been  in  France  we  might  have  put  it 
down  as  the  low  rumbling  of  thunder  as 
we  hear  it  in  the  States  during  a  late  sum- 
mer's shower. 

But  we  were  in  France,  and  we  knew! 
And  strange  to  relate,  it  made  us  happy.  I 
don't  think  there  was  a  man  among  us  whose 

40 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


heart  didn't  beat  a  little  faster  and  his  breath 
come  a  little  quicker  at  the  nearness  of  that 
which  we  had  come  over  seas  to  find.  So 
we  cheered,  and  sang  ourselves  to  sleep,  and 
wakened  often  in  the  night  anxious  for  the 
morning  and  movement. 

Daylight  found  us  on  our  way  again  and 
soon  we  ran  into  all  the  activity  of  behind 
the  lines — that  army  that  keeps  the  fighting 
army  fit  for  the  fight:  horses,  wagons,  motor 
trucks,  automobiles,  ambulances,  puffing 
engines  with  their  queer  little  trains  along- 
side piles  of  coal,  piles  of  shells,  hay,  grain, 
ammunition,  meat — everything  one  could 
think  of,  and  all  in  what  seemed  to  be  a 
hopeless  confusion. 

All  these  things  disentangled  themselves 
regularly  every  day  and  were  sent  away  up 
the  line  so  the  troops  in  the  trenches  could 
carry  on.  But  as  we  went  along  we  were 
smothered  in  the  dust  of  motor  trucks 
speeding  by  with  every  conceivable  thing 
a  great  army  needs  and  others  coming  back 

41 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


empty  for  more.  Always  it  was  more,  more, 
more!  Just  as  though  some  insatiable  mon- 
ster was  up  there  in  front. 

Sandwiched  between  the  motor  trucks 
were  the  horse  transports,  with  the  great, 
soft-eyed  horses  plodding  stolidly  along 
looking  at  us  as  we  passed  and  wondering 
what  it  was  all  about.  They  were  passed 
on  the  road  by  the  lighter  and  more  frisky 
artillery  teams  drawing  their  little  guns. 
White  with  dust  and  driven  by  cocky 
youngsters  full  of  pride  in  themselves, 
horses  and  drivers  seemed  to  sense  their 
superiority  over  the  less  agile  transport 
service. 

Swinging  in  and  out  through  all  the  line 
went  the  ambulances — going  "up"  for  those 
who  had  ''copped"  it  during  the  night.  All 
traffic  gave  way  to  them.  On  the  "up"  trip 
they  were  out  to  shatter  all  the  speed  laws, 
but  on  the  trip  "down,"  curtains  fastened 
taut  at  the  back,  they  were  driven  with  a 
skill  that  would  make  an  ex-taxi  chauffeur 

42 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


turn  in  his  grave;  driven  w^ith  a  skill  born 
of  the  knowledge  of  the  suffering  caused 
inside  by  needless  bumps  and  jolts.  We  sent 
many  glances  after  them,  for  we  knew  that 
those  men,  hidden  away  from  our  sight,  a 
few  hours  before  had  been  where  we  would 
be  in  a  few  hours  more. 

We  marched  that  day  round-eyed  with 
wonder  at  all  the  things  we  saw.  The  very 
magnitude  of  it  appalled  us.  Dimly  we 
began  to  realize  what  a  very  small  part  of 
it  we  were,  after  all.  And  the  realization 
did  us  a  great  deal  of  good. 

Late  that  evening  we  arrived  at  a  camp 
about  seven  miles  behind  the  line.  We  were 
fearfully  tired,  but  we  were  gloriously 
happy.  Then  the  next  day  it  rained,  and 
our  spirits  drooped.  At  five  o'clock  that 
afternoon  we  were  ordered  to  fall  in  outsde 
our  huts.  We  fell  in  and  there,  standing  on 
an  old  ration  box  in  the  pouring  rain  was 
the  general  who  at  that  time  commanded 
the  Canadian  Expeditionary  Force.    With 

43 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


no  great  coat  or  protection  of  any  kind,  he 
stood  there  and  talked  to  us.  There  were 
no  heroics;  just  a  plain  statement  in  the 
simplest  of  terms.  We  were  to  take  over 
trenches  that  night,  he  said,  and  he  told  us 
what  to  expect  and  what  we  were  to  do. 
It  made  a  great  impression  on  all  of  us  and 
we  cheered  like  mad  as  the  general  left  with 
our  colonel  by  his  side.  He  took  with  him 
our  hearts  and  our  allegiance  as  he  had  done 
with  the  first  division. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  huts  housed  a  mass 
of  chattering,  swearing,  sweating  humanity. 
Every  man  was  trying  vainly  to  shove  into 
corners  where  there  was  no  room,  things 
that  never  should  have  been  brought  along 
— and  we  were  to  march  off  in  an  hour.  It 
certainly  was  an  active  hour,  but  at  its  end 
we  were  on  our  way  to  the  trenches,  five 
rounds  in  the  magazine  of  our  rifles,  not 
for  target  practice  this  time.  We  were 
going  out  to  kill! 

As  I  remember,  I  was  not  excited,  but  I 

44 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


was  expectant  and  eager  to  be  in  a  first  line 
trench  and  see  for  myself  all  those  things 
we  had  been  hearing  about  during  our 
months  of  training. 

Silently  we  marched  through  a  pitch- 
black  night.  Two  ruined  villages  loomed 
up  in  our  path  like  ghosts  in  a  graveyard. 
At  last  we  were  in  a  trench;  a  communi- 
cation trench  leading  to  the  front  line.  We 
walked  and  walked,  winding  in  and  out, 
with  now  and  then  a  flare  shooting  up  from 
the  Boches  or  from  our  lines.  Sometimes 
they  seemed  right  over  us,  but  they  were 
not,  for  we  caught  not  even  a  trace  of  their 
glow.  Then  they  would  appear  off  in  the 
distance  until  we  had  to  look  twice  to  be 
sure  they  were  not  shooting  stars. 

Sometimes  we  were  squeezed  tightly 
against  the  mud  walls. 

Here  and  there  we  found  spaces  with 
room  for  four  men  to  pass  abreast,  and  still 
we  walked,  and  cursed,  because  we  were 
dead  tired.     It  was  midnight  and  the  rou- 

45 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


tine  of  man's  normal  life  said  we  should  be 
in  bed.  We  had  not  yet  taught  nature  she 
was  wrong. 

With  whispered  injunctions  to  keep  quiet 
and  stoop  low,  which  we  did  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  fellows  we  were  relieving,  we 
arrived  in  the  front  line. 

Of  course  my  sergeant  friend  took  me! 
As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  fire  trench  I  was 
told  of]f  to  stand  sentry.  The  man  I  was  to 
relieve  whispered  what  I  was  to  do  and 
climbed  up  on  the  firing  step  with  me.  I 
fixed  my  bayonet,  released  the  safety  catch 
on  my  rifle,  and  I  was  helping  to  guard  the 
world  from  the  mad  puppies  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wire. 

Here  and  there  a  gun  boomed;  big,  little 
and  medium  sized,  but  none  sounded  near 
us,  and  I  began  to  think  it  was  a  pretty 
good  game.  Then  I  looked  out  over  the 
parapet.  Something  was  moving  out  there! 
Maybe  the  Germans  had  heard  us  making 
the  relief  and  were  going  to  come  out  and 

46 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


throw  bombs  at  us.  I  had  heard  they  did 
that  to  new  troops  and  it  seemed  to  me  they 
could  not  have  avoided  knowing  we  were 
new  'uns. 

I  looked  again,  and  I  was  sure  there  were 
hundreds  of  them.  I  blazed  away  into  the 
center  of  them.  I  emptied  the  magazine 
and  then  ducked  behind  the  parapet  to  re- 
load. Visions  of  a  V.  C.  for  repelling  an 
attack  single  handed  came  suddenly  before 
me. 

They  were  still  there,  but  they  seemed  to 
have  hesitated  right  in  the  middle  of  No 
Man's  Land.  That  was  to  be  their  fatal 
mistake.  I  unloaded  my  next  five  rounds, 
rapid,  and  once  more  dropped  back  to 
throw  in  more  cartridges. 

Then  such  a  bang!  Something  hit  the 
parapet  in  front  of  me  with  a  crack  and  a 
Boche  flare  went  up.  So  did  my  head.  I 
was  going  to  empty  my  last  five  rounds  into 
Fritz  if  it  was  the  last  thing  I  did  in  my 
life.    I  put  two  rounds  by  the  flare  of  that 

47 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


light  into  the  stakes  supporting  our  wire 
and  then  I  quit.  I  was  attracting  too  much 
unfavorable  notice  from  the  other  side  of 
the  wire.  When  my  relief  came  along  I 
told  him  of  my  mistake  and  advised  him  to 
let  the  wire  stakes  stand  as  they  were. 

Daybreak  brought  us  "stand  to"  and  a 
full  picture  of  the  mud  and  glory  into 
which  we  had  come.  Our  stomachs  being 
empty,  though,  with  rations  in  our  haver- 
sacks, we  ate  and  for  a  few  minutes,  forgot. 

A  little  sun,  struggling  through  dirty 
gray  Flanders  clouds,  cheered  us  a  bit  and 
we  sat  squat  and  hunched  in  various  shapes 
wondering  what  the  day  would  bring. 

The  day  sentry,  standing  on  the  firing 
platform,  slipped  and  slid  into  our  midst 
at  the  bottom  of  the  trench.  We  laughed, 
thinking  he  had  missed  his  footing  on  the 
slimy  platform.  But  even  as  we  laughed 
the  sound  froze  on  our  lips  and  the  mirth 
in  our  hearts.  No  man  dropped  his  rifle 
and  fell  huddled  like  that  on  his  neck,  just 
for  fun.    His  face  lay  up  to  the  sun  he  had 

48 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


seen  for  the  last  time.    In  the  center  of  his 
forehead  was  a  little  round  hole. 

We  all  jumped  from  him.  I  can  confess 
it — we  were  frightened.  It  was  death  star- 
ing at  us  and  we  all  were  strangers  to  him. 
It  was  the  first  of  our  thousand  men  who 
came  over  seas  to  fight  God's  battles,  to 
reach  the  end  of  all  journeys,  and  it  brought 
us  to  with  a  shock. 

Since  that  day  more  than  fourteen  thou- 
sand have  passed  through  the  old  battalion 
to  keep  it  up  to  its  strength  and  we  who  are 
left  have  seen  Death  in  all  his  hideous 
forms.  We  are  not  calloused,  we  are  not 
unmindful,  but  no  longer  are  we  afraid. 
We  have  discovered  there  are  worse  things 
in  life  than  Death  and  many  a  one  of  us 
has  had  abundant  cause  to  envy  our  first 
pal  to  "go  west." 

One  of  the  boys,  bolder  than  the  rest, 
straightened  the  body  on  the  floor  of  the 
trench.  Another  mounted  sentry  and  a  third 
went  to  report  to  our  officer. 

We  had  been  "blooded!"     A  second's 

49 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


curiosity,  he  had  taken  one  peep  over  the 
top  in  daylight,  and  he  had  paid.  Curi- 
osity is  paid  for  dearly  in  all  that  vast  region 
known  as  "the  front,"  and  the  first  lesson 
of  fresh  troops  is  to  curb  it. 

Our  officer  came.  Paybook  and  personal 
belongings  were  taken  from  the  pockets  to 
send  to  the  folks  at  home.  His  ammunition, 
rifle  and  equipment  went  to  the  rear,  to  the 
dump,  for  someone  else  to  use.  It  was  war, 
and  he  was  finished.  We  covered  the  face 
and  body  with  a  blanket  and  my  mind  flew 
back,  across  the  Channel,  England,  the 
great  Atlantic  and  Canada  to  the  Pacific 
coast;  a  little  town  on  the  Fraser  river, 
where  a  mother  would  soon  be  bowed  with 
grief. 

I  had  known  the  boy  and  his  mother.  I 
had  eaten  and  slept  in  their  home.  I  knew 
the  grief  that  would  be  hers  and  the  pride 
there  would  be  in  her  heart,  too.  Her  John ! 
Her  boy,  that  she  had  raised  and  loved,  had 
died  fighting  for  his  country! 

While  it  would  be  a  bitter  blow,  what 

50 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


more  could  a  real  mother  ask  than  to  be  the 
mother  of  a  real  man?  She  had  told  him 
when  she  said  good-bye:  ''You  are  all  my 
heart,  Johnny.  If  you  come  back,  I  will 
be  proud  and  happy.  If  you  don't  come 
back,  well — I  wuU  be  proud." 

Thus  did  this  mother  of  Canada  give  her 
son  to  the  empire. 

We  kept  the  body  by  us  to  bury  when 
darkness  should  hide  us  from  the  enemy 
and  I  went  on  sentry  with  it  lying  just  below 
me.  The  feet  stuck  out  from  under  the 
blanket  and  they  fascinated  me.  I  could 
not  keep  my  eyes  away.  I  tried  to  think  and 
couldn't.  Twelve  hours  before  he  had  been 
alive!  A  month  before  I  had  met  him  on 
leave  in  London.  A  year  before  he  had 
been  at  home,  never  dreaming  of  war.  Now 
he  was  dead !  He  knew  what  I  wanted  to 
know;  what  everyone,  sometime,  wants  to 
know. 

Two  hours  watching  those  feet  made  me 
a  fatalist. 

Night  came,  and  with  it  the  padre  to 

51 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


bury  the  first  of  his  charges.  We  had  sewed 
the  body  in  the  blanket  as  well  as  we  could 
and  we  carried  it  about  five  hundred  yards 
behind  the  line  and  dug  a  shallow  grave. 
At  nine  o'clock  a  few  of  us  who  were  not 
working  quietly  filed  down  the  trench  and 
there,  with  a  dozen  men  kneeling  round  the 
grave,  the  flares  going  up  and  down,  the 
rattle  of  the  machine  guns  and  the  deep- 
toned  roar  and  hiss  of  the  big  guns  singing 
a  requiem,  we  left  him. 

It  was  well  it  was  dark.  My  eyes  were 
wet  and  I  knew  the  others'  were,  as  our  old 
padre  read  the  burial  service  from  memory 
in  a  soft,  low  voice,  and  six  of  us  pushed  the 
dirt  back  into  the  hole  with  our  intrenching 
tools. 

Moving  slowly  away  our  minds  inevit- 
ably framed  the  question :  "Who  will  be  the 
next?"  And  for  a  time  we  wondered,  and 
maybe  worried.  The  days  were  coming  soon, 
although  we  didn't  know  it  then,  when  there 
would  be   plenty  of   casualties — hundreds 

52 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


and  thousands  of  them — but  no  such  burial 
as  our  first  had  received.  Hell  fire  was  to 
come,  blasting  us  with  its  fury,  turning  over 
ground,  killing  and  maiming,  burying  and 
fi'^gg^^g  up  again,  stifling  us  with  putrid 
fumes  and  giving  us  no  rest.  It  was  to  make 
boys  of  twenty  into  men  of  forty  in  less  than 
that  number  of  hours,  but  it  was  to  purify 
and  sanctify  them  in  the  process.  It  was  to 
make  heroism  a  commonplace. 

But  we  didn't  know  what  was  to  come, 
and  with  the  resiliency  of  youth,  we  once 
more  were  smiling  and  happy. 


53 


Ill 


"Battalion  is  warned  for  relief." 

So  shouts  the  company  sergeant  major, 
and  we  groan.  It  means  we  are  going  into 
the  trenches  for  another  tour  of  duty  while 
the  other  fellows  come  out  and  rest.  It 
also  means  no  one  can  move  further  than  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  from  billets  until 
it  is  time  for  the  march  up  and  that  will  be 
within  twenty-four  hours. 

More  than  that,  it  starts  some  terribly 
heated  arguments  among  the  men  as  to  who 
will  be  in  the  firing  line  and  who  in  sup- 
ports. There  are  caustic  comments  con- 
cerning the  political  influences  of  some  pla- 
toons that  speak  for  the  support  line  and 
they,  in  turn,  chide  the  bloodthirsty  ten- 
dencies of  the  other  platoons. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  argument  until 
one  of  three  things  happens:  a  meal  arrives, 
a  parade  is  called,  or  the  estaminet  opena. 

54 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Then  the  warring  factions  call  it  off  and 
concentrate  their  attention,  if  so  be,  on  the 
meal  or  the  estaminet.  Parades?  Well, 
they've  got  to  be  done  so  they  are  done,  but 
not,  I  am  afraid,  with  the  concentration  de- 
voted to  the  other  two. 

The  last  night  before  going  in  every  man 
Jack  tries  to  spend  all  his  cash,  if  by  any 
chance  there  is  any  left  after  a  week  in 
billets.  But  if  there  is  none  in  some  pockets 
there  is  sure  to  be  plenty  in  others,  and  the 
boys  who  are  broke  are  perfectly  willing  to 
help  their  more  affluent  comrades  reduce 
their  surplus. 

It  is  so  foolish  to  go  into  the  trenches 
with  money  in  your  pocket.  In  fact,  it  isn't 
done.  It  is  such  an  absurd  waste.  A  fellow 
might  get  blown  up,  then  no  one  could 
spend  it.  If  you're  killed  with  a  bullet, 
somebody  else  will  spend  it.  If  worst  comes 
to  the  worst  and  the  Boches  grab  you,  they 
could  spend  it. 

So  take  no  chances.     Spend  it  yourself 

55 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


and  go  in  with  empty  pockets.  That  is  the 
philosophy  of  the  front. 

^^Crown  and  Anchor"  is  in  progress  in 
the  huts  for  the  benefit  of  the  draft  men 
just  out.  Poor  chaps !  They  think  they  can 
buck  the  bank  and  they  chuck  their  coins 
on  "the  lucky  old  mud  hook"  or  something 
equally  good.  The  banker  tries  to  *^bust" 
them  before  the  estaminet  closes,  while 
three  or  four  of  the  old  hands  look  on  with 
disgust — and  with  parched  throats.  Need- 
less to  say  both  these  conditions  are  due  to 
pockets  already  swept  clean.  And  who  can 
blame  them  for  being  disgusted?  Why 
can't  the  draft  men  take  them  to  the  estam- 
inet instead  of  throwing  their  francs  away 
on  a  banker's  game"  ? 

Down  the  road  in  the  estaminet  the  fun 
is  in  full  swing.  The  last  half  hour  before 
closing  time  has  come  and  money  is  slip- 
ping out  quickly  and  easily,  for  the  mild 
Belgian  and  French  beers  have  very  slight 
intoxicating  effect.  Here  and  there  a  seri- 

56 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


ous-faced  group  may  be  sitting,  talking  in 
low  tones,  earnestly  thumping  with  fists  to 
emphasize  some  telling  point.  Madame 
glares  at  them.  They  are  "na  poo";  all  the 
time  talk,  no  drink.  But  madame  has  no 
suspicion  that  they  are  the  great  generals 
of  the  army,  hidden  behind  private's  tunics, 
discussing  what  should  have  been  done  at 
Neuve  Chapelle  or  Loos,  and  that  even  now 
they  may  be  planning  some  stupidly  easy 
way  to  end  the  war. 

But  not  even  the  serious  thinkers  can  re- 
sist the  last  fifteen  minutes  of  grace  and  the 
place  becomes  a  roaring,  pounding  mass  of 
humanity,  watched  by  madame  with  a 
motherly  smile  on  her  face.  These  are  her 
boys,  her  ^'soldats,"  and  she  likes  them. 
They  are  careless  in  manner  and  full  of 
animal  spirits,  but  this  is  their  last  night 
"out"  for  awhile — maybe  for  always.  And 
she  looks  on  with  an  "I  knew  it"  expression 
in  her  kindly,  shrewd  eyes  as  a  few  glasses 
smash  to  the  tune  of  her  boys'  farewell. 

67 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


It  was  a  song  we  had  picked  up  from  no 
one  knew  where.  It  pleased  us  and  we  took 
it  as  our  own.  To  privileged  persons  whom 
we  esteemed — persons  such  as  madame — it 
was  both  our  salute  and  our  good-bye,  and 
as  the  military  police  came  in  to  turn  us 
out  we  stood  on  chairs  and  on  tables  and 
sang  to  madame.  The  song  ran  something 
like  this: 

Oh,  we  come  from  the  East 
And  we  come  from  the  West, 
To  fight  for  what  we  love  the  best; 
Jolly  Canucks  are  we! 

Some  of  us  are  rich, 

Some  of  us  are  bums; 

But  no  one  gives  a  damn 

For  the  Kaiser  and  all  his  Huns; 

Jolly  Canucks  are  we! 

No  one  can  call  it  poetry.    Probably  it  is 
nothing  at  all,  but  we  were  very  careful 

58 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


and  very  particular  where  we  sang  it  and  to 
whom.  When  we  did  sing  it  to  any  person 
they  might  well  consider  it  the  highest  of 
compliments.  To  madame,  as  long  as  we 
stayed  in  the  district,  we  sang  our  farewell 
every  last  night  before  we  went  into  the 
trenches. 

Our  song  over  this  night,  we  went  to  our 
hut,  which  was  an  improvement  over  the 
estaminet  only  in  that  its  capacity  was  lim- 
ited to  twenty-two  men.  Sleep  we  could, 
and  did,  however,  and  with  no  thought  of 
the  morrow. 

It  never  failed  to  rain  when  we  made  a 
relief,  and  sure  enough,  next  day  it  poured. 
It  came  down  in  sheets !  But  you  can't  post- 
pone your  relief  on  account  of  rain  like  you 
can  a  ball  game,  so  we  packed  up;  not  a 
wardrobe  trunk  and  handbag,  but  just  what 
we  could  carry  on  our  backs  in  a  clever  but 
fiendish  device  which  seems  to  get  heavier 
and  heavier  with  every  step  as  you  go  along. 
It  only  takes  about  five  minutes  to  pack,  but 

59 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


when  you  get  it  all  on  your  back  you  look 
like  a  Christmas  tree  at  a  Sunday-school 
festival. 

It  is  a  peculiar  thing  to  pack  up  like  this 
to  move  into  the  trenches.  Will  you  come 
back?  Will  your  pal?  If  you  look  around 
and  study  the  faces  you  probably  will  not 
find  a  single  fleeting  expression  to  show 
what  these  men  think  and  feel.  Reinforce- 
ment men  may  display  a  keen  curiosity  and 
ask  innumerable  questions,  but  these  ques- 
tions are  quickly  shut  off  by  the  most  flip- 
pant and  absurd  answers. 

The  old  hand  may  indicate  his  feelings 
by  a  fervent  and  more  or  less  sulphurous 
hope  that  he  will  get  a  ^'blighty''  this  "time 
in,"  but  beyond  that,  war,  to  all  outward 
appearances,  is  the  least  of  any  one's 
thoughts.  At  times  like  this,  and  just  be- 
fore an  attack,  you  always  believe — in  fact 
you  are  absolutely  sure — it  is  someone  else 
who  will  "get  it.'' 

All   packed   up   and  with   the   midday 

60 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


meal  over  we  lay  around  waiting  for 
two  o'clock.  It  comes  all  too  quickly 
and  the  sergeant  calls  through  the  door: 
"Fall  in  on  the  road,  No.  i  platoon." 
We  heave  our  kits  into  place  and  move 
out  into  the  driving  rain.  We  fall  in 
on  a  wet,  slippery  cobblestone  road.  There 
is  a  lot  of  pushing  and  shoving  as  we  get 
into  place  and  then  there  is  dead  silence. 

The  roll  is  called,  the  C.  O.  appears  from 
nowhere,  takes  the  sergeant's  report  of  "all 
present,"  gives  the  command  "Right  turn, 
quick  march,"  and  we  start  off. 

What  luck  we  are  in  for  now  no  one 
knows  or  cares.  Our  immediate  problem  is 
wrestling  with  fifty  pounds  on  the  back  and 
a  wet,  slippery,  slimy  road,  and  if  you  will 
believe  me,  it  is  some  wrestling  match !  We 
skate  more  than  we  march,  with  every  now 
and  then  someone  going  "crash!"  rifle  one 
way,  body  another,  much  to  the  amusement 
of  his  pals  and  the  detriment  of  his  own 
morals. 

61 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Then  comes  a  shout  from  up  ahead, 
"Keep  to  the  right,"  and  we  ease  off  to  the 
side  of  the  road  while  a  big  motor  truck 
lumbers  by,  splashing  mud  aplenty  over  all 
of  us.  Then  the  whole  platoon  breaks  out 
in  language  that  would  put  a  Washington 
logger  to  shame.  Another  goes  by  filling 
our  eyes  and  mouths  with  liquid  mud,  and 
our  rage  sends  us  into  shrieks,  but  still 
another  and  another  chug  past,  each  driven 
by  some  self-satisfied  young  chauffeur 
whose  greatest  delight  is  to  annoy  us  and 
start  our  flow  of  profanity.  By  his  side  sits 
his  fat  helper.  Both  have  broad  grins  on 
their  faces  and  they  seem  to  say:  "Fools, 
why  didn't  you  join  our  branch  of  the  ser- 
vice, and  you'd  never  have  to  walk?" 

They  disappear  to  the  rear  and  our  curs- 
ings die  away  in  mutterings,  as  we  must 
save  our  breath  to  help  us  over  the  roads. 
So,  silently  we  trudge  along  in  the  rain  and 
the  gathering  gloom.  For  a  moment  we  envy 
those  men  on  the  lorries  and  frankly  confess 

62 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


it  to  ourselves,  yet  in  the  next  moment  we 
are  fiercely  proud  that  we  are  the  infantry, 
the  foot  sloggers  that  live  in  the  mud  and 
muck  of  the  trenches. 

Dirty  we  may  be,  and  full  of  '^cooties,"  but 
we  are  the  boys  who  clinch  the  argument 
and  we  are  fighting  proud  of  our  three  year 
traditions  and  the  hundreds  of  years'  old 
traditions  of  the  French  and  British  in- 
fantry by  whose  side  we  man  the  parapets. 
Our  American  doughboys  will  learn  that 
feeling  too.  They  will  recognize  that  other 
branches  of  the  service  are  important,  yet 
they  will  tolerate  them,  and  that's  all. 

So  we  slither  along  and  come  to  some  bat- 
teries of  artillery  lining  the  road,  the  dug- 
outs for  their  crews  near  by.  It  is  dark 
now  and  as  it  is  to  be  a  quiet  night  the  gun- 
ners are  in  their  shelters,  but  their  sentries 
spot  us  and  call  to  their  mates,  "the  infantry 
is  going  by."  Then  they  all  come  tumbling 
out  to  wish  us  good  luck.  They  are  our 
friends,  if  friends  we  have.    They  know  it 

63 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


and  we  know  it.  They  know  what  we  go 
through  and  we  love  them  because  they  give 
back,  shell  for  shell  and  then  some  for  in- 
terest, every  one  Fritz  drops  onto  us.  We 
depend  on  them,  and  they  on  us. 

With  much  good  natured  bantering  we 
slip  through  the  early  night  toward  ruin 
and  desolation,  and  they  go  back  to  their 
warm,  dry  blankets. 

Now  we  branch  off  the  road  and  take  to 
the  fields  which  will  provide  a  short  cut  to 
the  communication  trenches.  As  we  go 
skating  over  this  treacherous  ground  we 
come  to  a  little  patch  of  turnips  cultivated 
by  the  French  peasants  with  that  wonderful 
spirit  which  carries  them  right  up  to  the 
shell  zone  and  makes  them  fill  in  a  shell 
hole  in  their  garden  and  replant  it.  As  we 
cross  we  stoop  and  pick  up  the  turnips.  Not 
bothering  to  peel  them,  we  rub  off  the  worst 
of  the  dirt  and,  still  eating  them,  we  arrive 
at  another  road  and  the  entrance  to  the 
C.T. 

64 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Here  we  rest,  lying  on  the  road,  our  uni- 
forms absorbing  more  of  the  sticky  mud. 
We  are  tired,  however,  so  it  does  not  mat- 
ter; not  even  the  fact  that  a  shell  may  come 
down  and  scatter  bodies  in  all  directions, 
souls  going  to  their  Maker  even  before  the 
bodies  come  down  like  huge  chunks  of  mud. 
That  such  a  possibility  exists,  no  one  doubts, 
but  no  one  is  worried  about  it. 

Mud  and  water  soon  cool  one  and  we 
show  signs  of  restlessness.  Up  we  get  and 
in  single  file  enter  the  communication 
trench,  which  gradually  gets  deeper  until 
it  is  above  our  heads  and  we  are  swallowed 
in  an  inky  blackness.  The  journey  is  nearly 
over  now,  except  for  that  turning  and  twist- 
ing and  winding  in  a  monotonous,  endless 
sort  of  maze,  with  the  way  lighted  into  day 
one  minute  by  a  flare  and  the  next  minute 
blackness  more  intense  than  ever. 

Now  a  man  slips  and  falls,  the  next  in 
file  tumbling  on  top  of  him.  Endless  con- 
versation about  the  matter  follows,  but  on 

65 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


we  go  and  gradually  we  come  nearer  to  the 
flares  and  to  those  men  who  are  waiting 
for  us — those  men  who  have  been  there  for 
the  last  six  days,  answering  shot  for  shot 
from  the  enemy,  lying  in  their  ditch  full 
of  muck  and  corruption,  graced  by  the 
name  of  trench,  while  the  artillery  hourly 
played  on  and  over  them.  For  six  days 
they  have  been  there,  suffering  their  cas- 
ualties and  standing  up  under  punishment, 
while  we  had  our  rest.  Now  it  is  their 
turn,  and  we  hurry  on  that  our  relief  will 
be  on  time,  for  in  six  more  days  they  will 
relieve  us  and  we  will  want  them  to  be  on 
time. 

Sweating  and  staggering  under  the 
weight  of  our  packs  we  slip  into  our  posi- 
tions. With  whispered  bantering  and 
*'good  luck,  bo,"  they  melt  into  the  night. 
We  are  ^4n." 

We  are  nicely  settled  in  our  new  quarters 
when  dawn  begins  to  streak  the  eastern  sky. 
Suddenly  the  whole  world  is  alight. 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


"Hey,  fellows,  just  take  a  look  through 
this  periscope  at  No  Man's  Land.  Of  all 
the  over-rated  places  in  the  world  this  has 
got  'em  beat." 

That  was  Tommy's  opinion. 

"What  the did  you  expect  to  see," 

asked  the  grouch. 

"Well,  bodies  hanging  in  the  wire  to 
start  with,  and  there  ain't  a  one.  Then 
some  on  the  ground.  But  just  look!  There 
ain't  a  thing  in  sight!" 

We  all  jumped  up  to  peep  in  turn  and 
it  was  a  terrible  disillusionment.  Abso- 
lute quiet  reigned  all  over.  Our  trenches 
were  situated  near  the  top  of  a  hill,  and 
we  could  look  back  behind  our  front  line. 
Forward  we  could  see  a  hundred  yards 
ahead  to  a  wall  of  sandbags  and  dirt — the 
German  parapet. 

There  was  not  a  moving  thing,  backward 
or  ahead,  except  trees  and  grass  swaying  to 
a  North  Sea  wind.  The  air  was  full  of 
strange  sounds ;  aeroplanes  on  the  wing,  big 

67 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


battle  planes,  the  smaller  and  speedier 
scouts;  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  or  the 
whine  of  its  ricochet;  the  lazy  roar  of  a 
shell  that  now  and  then  came  our  way,  in- 
creasing its  roar  to  a  scream  of  rage  as  it 
reached  the  end  of  its  journey  and  exploded 
with  a  crash,  throwing  up  dirt  or  man  in 
a  great  shower.  Not  a  living  thing  could 
be  found  on  the  top  of  the  ground,  though. 
To  go  on  the  surface  meant  you  would  be 
^^na  poo"  in  a  second.  So  we  sat  tight  in 
our  trenches  and  looked  at  No  Man's  Land 
through  a  periscope. 

Imagine  a  river  running  from  the  North 
Sea  to  Switzerland.  I  know  rivers  don't 
run  up  hill,  but  just  imagine  it  anyway, 
twisting  and  turning,  narrowing  and  widen- 
ing as  all  rivers  do.  Take  for  the  banks  of 
your  river  the  parapets  of  the  opposing 
armies  and  then  you  have  No  Man's  Land. 
As  a  river,  narrowing,  sends  its  waters  rush- 
ing through  the  channel,  so  does  the  fight- 
ing increase  where  No  Man's  Land  nar- 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


rows,  until  at  night  there  is  a  continual  flash 
over  these  parts.  From  afar  you  can  pick 
out  the  narrow  strips  like  you  can  pick  the 
swift  running  parts  of  the  river  by  the  in- 
creasing roar  of  the  waters. 

Where  No  Man's  Land  widens  then 
there,  like  on  a  river,  you  find  peace  and 
quiet,  after  a  fashion,  and  live  your  life 
underground  as  best  you  can,  happy  and 
content  that  you  are  alive. 

At  night,  from  the  rear,  you  can  pick 
out  the  broader  reaches  of  No  Man's  Land 
by  the  regular  rise  and  fall  of  the  flares, 
making  no  more  noise  than  a  river  slipping 
quietly  toward  the  sea. 

That  is  No  Man's  Land  and  that  is  why 
Tommy  was  disappointed.  Not  that 
Tommy  was  bloodthirsty.  Far  from  it. 
His  imagination  had  led  him  to  expect 
something  else;  bodies,  enemies  and  friends, 
hung  in  the  wire,  piled  high  on  the  ground. 
He  had  looked  for  and  expected  daily, 
even  hourly,  hand-to-hand  conflicts  with  the 

69 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Germans  in  which  much  blood  would  be 
spilled.     Oh!  the  disappointment  of  it. 

Tommy  really  was  disgusted,  for  what  he 
saw  through  his  periscope  was  a  strip  of 
land  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards 
wide,  exactly  the  same  as  any  other  strip 
of  land  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards  wide, 
only  at  the  other  side  was  a  wall  of  sand- 
bags and  dirt  three  or  four  feet  high. 

'Wonder  if  ours  looks  like  that,"  thought 
Tommy  out  loud. 

''Go  out  and  see,  you fool,"  said 

the  grouch,  which  was  the  start  of  a  local 
engagement  right  then  and  there,  and  I 
managed  to  get  the  periscope.  I  wanted 
to  see  a  German.  We  had  been  in  the 
trenches  for  nearly  three  months,  off  and  on, 
and  had  suffered  some  casualties;  not  many 
— but  none  of  us  had  seen  a  German  yet. 

No  Man's  Land  wasn't  worth  looking  at. 
It  was  the  same  old  story.  There  was  wire 
to  start  with;  plenty  of  it.  I  have  often 
wondered  how  many  thousands  of  miles  of 

70 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


wire  must  have  been  used  up  to  now.  After 
our  wire,  more  land,  then  German  wire. 
Rusty,  lifeless,  stupid  looking  stuff,  it  has 
cost  more  in  money,  men,  time  and  material, 
to  destroy  and  put  up  than  any  agent  of  war 
except  old  Wilhelm  der  Grosse. 

It  is  partly  covered  by  the  tall  grass 
which  grows  around  it,  mercifully  covering 
other  things  as  well;  men  who  have  given 
their  bodies  to  their  king  and  country,  lay- 
ing there  forgotten  except  by  their  families 
and  the  pals  they  soldiered  with.  Thank 
Heavens  the  tall  grass  does  mercifully  cover 
up  this,  and  only  fools  try  to  uncover  it. 

We  once  found  two  shoes  standing  to- 
gether pointing  forward.  Inside  were  the 
ankle  and  foot  bones  of  the  man  who  had 
left  them  there.  We  found  them  on  the 
ground  of  what  is  now  one  of  the  famous 
earlier  engagements  of  the  war.  They 
were  a  Frenchman's,  size  six,  slightly  torn. 
What  a  story  they  told  to  the  glory  of 
France;  the  wonderful  spirit  and  patriotism 

71 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


that  has  carried  her  through  all  her 
troubles.  He  was  a  little  man,  possibly  a 
Parisian,  small  and  debonnair,  proud  of  his 
dainty  feet,  so  neat,  nay  almost  chic.  And 
then — war,  bloody,  thunderous  war.  Gone 
at  once  was  the  little  man's  pride  in  his  feet. 
Gone  were  his  boulevard  ambitions.  Si- 
lently he  slipped  away  from  his  beloved 
Paris.  A  silent  and  fervent  handshake  here 
and  there,  then  the  depot,  then,  the  turning 
point. 

The  French  advanced.  The  British  ad- 
vanced. The  Germans  retreated.  And 
then  he  met  his  fate,  leaving  there  his  little 
feet.  Where  the  rest  of  him  went  heaven 
only  knows.  He  died,  though,  happy — 
very  happy — going  forward.  He  died  as 
thousands  of  others  have  died,  thinking 
they  were  winning  the  great  victory.  They 
were,  but  the  victory  still  is  in  the  future. 
We  all  go  on,  though,  always  thinking  it 
will  soon  end,  hardly  caring  to  credit  the 
German  with  the  savagery,   cunning  and 

72 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


deceit  that  time  after  time  he  has  disclosed 
to  the  world.  He  laughs  at  us  and  carries 
on. 

And  let  me  say  now  that  unless  we  take 
off  our  gloves  to  handle  Mr.  Boche,  our 
whole  country  will  be  No  Man's  Land. 
And  that  wouldn't  be  nice! 

Tommy  and  the  grouch  finished  their  ar- 
gument and  clamor  for  the  periscope. 
Finally  they  get  it.  All  day  long  we  look 
for  the  Boche  and  never  see  him.  Hiding 
ourselves  behind  the  trench  walls,  some  of 
us  fling  trench  mortar  bombs  across  the  way 
while  the  others  watch  the  air.  When  a 
black  object  is  discovered  tumbling  over 
and  over  as  though  the  very  air  were  loath 
to  hold  it,  there  is  a  shout,  "bomb  right," 
"left"  or  "center,"  as  the  case  may  be.  And 
everyone  scuttles  for  cover.  In  a  second 
there  is  a  grand  crash,  then  silence,  and  we 
come  out  again. 

It's  a  good  game  if  they  don't  come  too 
fast! 

73 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


A  Canadian,  I  don't  know  who,  one  day 
decided  he  didn't  like  the  phrase  No  Man's 
Land.  It  didn't  sound  right.  It  seemed  to 
put  the  Boche  on  a  level  with  us  and  that 
was  an  insult  to  all  white  men.  The  Cana- 
dians had  always  fought  fair,  and  like  real 
sportsmen.  In  short,  the  Canadians  re- 
named No  Man's  Land  ''CANADA,"  and 
wherever  they  go  they  dare  the  Boche  to 
step  over  his  parapet  and  dispute  the  fact. 

At  night,  everything  is  changed.  Ground 
that  was  deserted  by  day  teems  with  ac- 
tivity. Men  come  and  go  in  large  and  small 
parties;  behind  the  lines  for  rations,  water, 
mail  and  the  thousand  and  one  things  that 
are  necessary  to  trench  life;  in  front  of  the 
lines  for  adventure,  for  work,  and  to  meet 
whatever  the  night  may  bring. 


74 


IV 


It  rather  got  on  our  nerves,  this  going  up 
to  the  line  and  going  back  again.  We  had 
about  decided  all  we  were  going  to  see  of 
the  war  was  a  couple  of  mud  and  sandbag 
walls  and  some  rusty  wire.  Just  now  we 
were  back  in  billets  and  were  due  for  an- 
other trip  in.  We  were  supposed  to  march 
up  the  next  day  and  everybody  was  grousing 
when  the  whole  battalion  was  paraded  and 
the  sergeant  major  read  an  order. 

"The  following  men  will  report  to  Lieu- 
tenant   ,"  it  ran. 

Then  followed  a  list  of  names,  quite  a 
few  altogether,  and  mine  was  among  them. 
We  were  to  stay  out  of  the  line  this  time 
and  practice  for  a  raid! 

In  five  minutes  we  were  the  heroes  of  the 
battalion.  Nothing  was  too  good  for  us. 
Down  at  the  estaminet,  where  we  foregath- 
ered immediately,  we  had  everything  in  the 

75 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


house  and  it  didn't  cost  us  a  centime.  We 
were  to  be  the  first  of  our  lot  to  meet  the 
enemy  hand  to  hand  and  the  boys  were  de- 
termined to  make  it  the  cause  of  a  celebra- 
tion. 

It  was  now  nearly  four  months  that  we 
had  been  in  Belgium.  We  had  worked  until 
we  nearly  dropped  trying  to  beat  the  mud 
to  it,  and  keep  our  trenches  in  shape.  As 
fast  as  we  built,  however,  just  a  little  faster 
had  our  walls  slid  in  on  us  until  some  of 
us  had  been  nearly  drowned  in  the  stuff. 
We  had  been  on  working  parties  in  No 
Man's  Land  and  we  were  in  the  way  of 
being  veterans,  yet  never  a  German  had  we 
seen,  except  one  or  two  dead  ones  lying 
out  between  the  lines.  We  had  thought 
once  or  twice  we  had  seen  some  at  night — 
huge  shapes  moving  silently  and  mysteri- 
ously in  front  of  their  wire — but  face  to  face 
with  them  we  had  never  been,  and  we 
wanted  to  be!  Now  our  chance  was 
coming. 

[76 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


The  younger  men  in  the  battalion  looked 
on  us  with  awe  and  admiration,  the  older 
members  with  envy,  and  we,  modest  heroes, 
strutted  the  street  and  pretended  to  see  no 
one  but  our  own  band  of  picked  braves. 
In  the  estaminet  we  sat  in  little  groups  whis- 
pering by  ourselves  when  the  celebration 
had  died  down  for  want  of  francs  to  keep  it 
alive. 

Men  asked  us  questions,  we  looked  su- 
perior, answered  evasively  and  they  walked 
away  more  impressed  than  ever.  It  was 
a  great  life! 

Our  lieutenant  soon  got  us  busy,  though, 
working  for  the  great  night  which  had  been 
set  about  a  week  later.  During  the  first 
couple  of  days  we  worked  in  daylight  get- 
ting our  formations,  learning  what  we  were 
to  do  and  how  we  were  going  to  do  it.  There 
was  one  thing  we  were  going  to  do,  and  that 
was  get  rid  of  a  trench  mortar  which  always 
pounded  blazes  out  of  our  parapet.  The 
Germans  who  ran  that  thing  didn't  know  it, 

77 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


but  their  time  was  running  short,  which 
simply  goes  to  show  how  really  little  mor- 
tal man  knows  as  to  when  his  end  is  coming. 

So  we  went  over  the  ground  in  daylight, 
threading  our  way  through  lanes  of  wire, 
throwing  dummy  bombs,  jumping  into  a 
trench,  running  to  certain  places  in  it  to  look 
for  things  we  hoped  to  find.  Among  them 
were  entrances  to  dugouts,  machine  gun  em- 
placements, and  that  cursed  trench  mortar, 
which  daily  sent  its  "minnies"  whining 
through  the  air.  When  we  found  these 
places  in  our  imagination,  we  did  things 
which,  being  well  done,  are  certain  to  do 
away  with  just  those  things  we  intended  to 
eliminate. 

Again,  we  would  simply  walk  over  the 
ground,  memorizing  every  little  detail,  for 
we  were  keen  that  our  raid  should  be  a 
success.  Then  we  finished  our  work  by  day 
and  turned  night  into  day.  All  day  we 
would  lay  in  billets,  sleep,  eat,  write  letters 
and  think  of  the  fellows  who  had  gone  to 

78 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


the  line.  Life  was  good  to  us.  Here  we 
were,  lounging  around  with  nothing  to  do 
until  night;  so  we  stretched,  yawned,  and 
went  to  sleep  again. 

After  supper,  though,  we  would  pile  out, 
march  quietly  across  to  a  nearby  field,  and 
line  up  in  our  formation  ready  to  move. 
A  word  whispered  up  and  down  the  line, 
''All    right,    boys,"    and    then    our   officer 
would  slip  away  in  the  darkness,  all  of  us 
after  him,  each  to  his  task.    And  those  tasks 
were  many  and  varied.    German  wire  had 
to  be  cut— we  couldn't  expect  that  to  be 
done  for  us— a  party  had  to  look  for  dug- 
outs and  prisoners;  another  had  to  search 
for  our  hated  enemy,  the  trench  mortar; 
another,  machine  guns;  still  another  must 
help  back  our  wounded;  on  all  of  us  rested 
the  responsibility  of  getting  back  our  own 
killed,    but   we    didn't   think   about   that. 
There  weren't  going  to  be  any. 

Away  we  went,   crawling  through   the 
darkness  toward  our  objective.    It  was  al- 

79 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


most  as  exciting  as  the  real  thing.  Of 
course,  we  reached  our  objective.  No  trouble 
at  all.  We  destroyed  everything  in  sight, 
brought  back  about  a  hundred  prisoners, 
suffered  no  casualties,  and  turned  into  our 
straw  just  as  daylight  broke. 

So  we  went  on  till  the  last  night,  when 
we  tried  it  carrying  any  weapons  we  wanted. 
One  fellow  was  a  butcher.  He  carried  a 
cleaver.  Another  was  an  old  British  Co- 
lumbia logger.  He  had  a  hand  ax.  Another 
was  a  lather.  He  had  a  lathing  hatchet. 
Some  carried  bayonets  in  their  puttees. 
Others  carried  revolvers  and  everybody  car- 
ried bombs.  Captain  Kidd's  crew  would 
have  looked  like  a  lot  of  nursery  pirates 
compared  to  us,  but  as  is  generally  the  case, 
our  bark  was  worse  than  our  bite.  We 
lacked  the  bloodthirsty  spirit,  but  we  were 
keen  to  make  good,  which  helped  a  lot. 

The  last  practice  augured  badly  for  Mr. 
Fritz.  Everything  went  like  clockwork. 
We  must  have  killed  a  million  Boches  that 
night  as  we  worked  away  at  our  job,  and 

80 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


away  in  the  distance  we  could  hear  our 
artillery  firing  in  bursts  of  rapid  fire.  It 
was  nearly  time  for  the  game  to  start. 

As  we  walked  back  to  billets  in  the  early 
morning  light,  we  were  excited.  To-night 
would  tell  the  tale.  We  never  worried  about 
ourselves.  We  wanted  the  excitement  of 
the  thing.  It  was  for  our  battalion,  for  the 
Canadians,  that  we  worried.  Would  we 
make  a  good  job  of  it?  Good  enough  to  re- 
flect credit  on  the  rest  of  the  troops?  That 
is  what  worries  the  "Tommy";  his  regi- 
ment. Rather  would  he  die  than  disgrace 
that. 

We  tumbled  into  bed  to  sleep  until  noon. 

"All  out  for  dinner,  fellows,"  and  we 
scrambled  out  of  our  straw  for  a  hot  meal. 
Our  lieutenant  came  around  and  told  us  we 
would  fall  in  at  three  o'clock  ready  to  move 
ofif.  All  soon  enough  the  hour  came  and 
we  fell  in.  Our  officer  inspected  us  and  we 
moved  away.  Excited?  Well,  I  should 
say  so! 

I  kept  wondering  how  it  would  feel  to 

81 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Stick  a  Boche.  It  wasn't  exactly  like  killing 
another  man,  but  I  wondered  if  I  could  do 
it,  and  tried  to  imagine  it.  I  couldn't,  so 
I  stopped  thinking  about  it.  One  fellow 
expressed  the  feelings  of  us  all. 

'^I'm  glad  it's  going  to  be  dark,  fellows. 
I  hate  those  devils,  but  they  look  like  human 
beings,  even  if  they  ain't,"  he  said. 

With  that  we  passed  the  whole  thing  out 
of  our  minds  and  sang  'Wever  trouble 
trouble  till  trouble  troubles  you,"  to  relieve 
our  feelings.  And  we  went  blithely  on  our 
way. 

At  seven  thirty  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
front  line  trench,  in  my  own  company  sec- 
tor, and  that  very  trench  mortar  we  were 
going  over  for  had  blown  in  two  of  the  dug- 
outs during  the  afternoon. 

^'Get  those  things  to-night  if  you  get  noth- 
ing else,"  our  company  commander  said, 
and  we  agreed  to  do  it.  As  our  dugouts 
were  blown  in  we  had  to  sit  in  the  trench 
and  as  we  sat  there,  word  was  passed  quietly 
down  the  line  "friendly  patrol  out." 
82 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Our  wire  cutters  had  gone  out,  and  our 
adventure  was  started.  When  they  came 
back,  if  they  did  come  back,  then  it  would 
be  our  turn. 

Wire  cutting  is  no  easy  job  and  takes  a 
long  time.  The  fellows  go  out  and  crawl 
through  lanes  in  our  own  wire  and  on  out 
to  the  German  wire.  They  carry  wire  cut- 
ters and  wear  special  gloves.  It  is  hard 
work  and  ticklish  from  the  time  they  start 
at  the  outer  edge  of  the  German  wire  until 
they  finish  at  the  inner  edge.  This  gener- 
ally is  about  ten  yards  from  the  enemy 
parapet. 

It  calls  for  real  nerve.  The  fellows  crawl 
to  the  point  at  which  they  intend  to  cut 
through,  take  hold  of  a  strand  with  their 
cutters,  place  a  heavily-gloved  hand  over 
the  whole  thing,  and  then  press  down.  It 
is  an  anxious  second.  Will  it  make  a 
noise?  No,  not  this  time  anyway.  The 
cutters  sink  through  the  strand  quietly  and 
cleanly  and  the  man  pulls  back  one  more 
strand  out  of  the  way.    But  never  must  he 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


be  pleased  with  temporary  success  and  make 
a  false  move.  Just  one  slip,  just  one  little 
piece  of  carelessness,  and  the  whole  thing  is 
ruined. 

Failure,  for  those  men  out  there,  means 
almost  certain  death  and  a  swift  one.  They 
will  see  for  the  space  of  a  second  the  flash 
of  a  machine  gun  or  bomb.  They  will  see 
it  for  just  a  second,  then  they  will  pass  away 
and  beyond.  Those  who  stayed  in  the 
trenches  will  see  in  the  morning  a  few  fig- 
ures lying  in  and  around  the  German  wire. 
That  is  failure.  The  raid  is  recalled  and  it 
is  impossible  to  carry  it  out  for  a  few  days, 
as  Fritz  will  flood  No  Man's  Land  at  night 
with  flare  lights  until  it  is  like  daytime. 

If  we  can  judge  by  flares  to-night,  how- 
ever, we  are  not  to  have  a  failure.  They 
only  go  up  now  and  then,  with  their  usual 
regularity.  Mr.  Boche  suspects  nothing, 
and  we  chuckle  with  delight.  While  we 
chuckle  we  rub  our  hands  and  faces  with 
a  mixture  of  charcoal  and  grease  paint,  plas- 
tering it  all  over  our  skin,  much  to  the 

84 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


amusement  of  everybody.  It  is  a  good  pro- 
tection, though.  While  we  are  rubbing  it 
in,  our  brigadier  comes  up  with  part  of  his 
staff.  With  him  also  is  our  colonel.  They 
both  shake  hands  with  us  and  wish  us  luck, 
then  pass  on  to  the  company  headquarters 
to  wait  till  the  raid  is  over.  They  are 
anxious,  too,  to  see  what  luck  we  have.  And 
all  blackened  up  like  a  minstrel  first  part 
we  sit  snickering  and  chattering. 

The  butcher  fingers  his  cleaver  lovingly 
and  the  logger  practices  throwing  his  ax 
into  the  wall  of  the  trench  opposite  as  we 
wait  for  the  wire  cutters  to  come  back. 
They  have  been  out  a  little  more  than  four 
hours  now  and  it  is  nearly  time  for  them  to 
report  in.  While  we  are  talking  in  whis- 
pers, they  return,  all  except  two  or  three 
who  are  left  to  guard  the  lanes  they  have 
cut,  and  we  move  off  to  the  spot  from  which 
we  will  leave  our  parapet.  The  signaling 
station  gets  in  touch  with  the  artillery  and 
we  crawl  out  into  '^Canada." 

Now  a  fellow  may  feel  very  brave  when 

85 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


he  is  in  a  trench,  but  once  you  get  outside 
it  is  all  different.  As  we  left  our  parapet 
and  dropped  down  in  front  waiting  for  the 
rest  to  come  out  and  get  into  position  it 
seemed  to  me  that  both  those  parapets  rose 
to  a  tremendous  height,  so  high  that  we 
would  never  be  able  to  climb  over  either 
one  of  them  again.  A  flare  went  up  from 
the  enemy  line  and  I  was  confident  they 
could  see  us.  Every  place  of  concealment 
seemed  to  vanish  at  the  same  second  and 
nothing  was  left  for  cover  but  skinny  little 
twigs  here  and  there.  And  then  the  word 
was  whispered,  'lead  on." 

Some  of  the  fellows  who  had  been  cut- 
ting the  wire  were  preceding  us  as  guides. 

I  had  elected  to  take  a  rifle  with  me  and 
as  I  dragged  it  along  I  thought  of  the  old 
stories  I  had  read  as  a  boy  of  Buffalo  Bill, 
and  almost  laughed  out  loud  when  I  re- 
membered one  in  which  the  old  scout  had 
shot  and  then  scalped  seventeen  Indians  in 
one  fight.    Luckily  I  caught  myself  just  in 

86 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


time,  and  concentrated  all  my  attention  to 
crawling.  How  I  hated-those  cursed  flares, 
though.  Every  now  and  then  they  would  go 
sailing  fifty  or  sixty  feet  into  the  air  with 
their  hissing  noise  and  we  would  freeze  to 
the  ground. 

We  didn't  dare  look  up  to  see  where  it 
was  going  to  light.  We  didn't  dare  move, 
and  as  I  lay  there,  my  heart  beating  so  hard 
it  almost  caused  the  earth  to  tremble,  I 
imagined  that  ball  of  fire  was  going  to  light 
in  the  middle  of  my  back. 

I  remembered  the  story  of  the  little  Spar- 
tan boy  who  had  taken  the  fox  to  school  and 
let  it  gnaw  his  breast  away,  and  I  won- 
dered if  I  could  lie  still  and  let  that  light 
burn  through  my  back  without  shrieking. 
But  I  decided  I  might  just  as  well  yell, 
as  the  Boches  would  smell  me  burning  and 
suspect  something  anyway.  Then  the  light 
landed — but  not  on  me — died  out  with  a 
splutter,  and  we  crawled  forward  again. 

A  few  yards  nearer — it  is  getting  mighty 
:87j 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


exciting  now.  We  are  passing  through  their 
wire.  Right  ahead  is  their  parapet,  a  wall 
of  mud.  Not  a  sign  of  a  living  being.  We 
might  as  well  have  been  alone  in  the  world. 
It  is  fascinating  sport.  Just  on  the  other 
side,  only  a  few  yards  away,  is  the  enemy, 
and  he  is  due  for  an  awful  fright  in  a  few 
seconds. 

At  that  instant  a  flare  shoots  up,  so  close 
to  us  we  can  see  the  sparks  from  the  dis- 
charge. We  flatten  ourselves,  hoping  the 
ground  will  swallow  the  lot.  But  even  as 
the  flare  exploded  the  air  became  full  of  a 
roaring  noise,  ending  with  a  crash  in  front 
of  us.  Our  box  barage  had  opened.  The 
timing  was  perfect.  We  were  in  luck  and 
Mr.  Boche  was  out  of  it,  for  we  were  in 
that  trench  before  he  had  time  to  wink. 

The  one  who  sent  up  that  flare — well,  he 
never  knew  what  hit  him.  The  logger 
mounted  the  parapet  just  where  the  flare 
had  gone  up. 

Don't   ask   me   what    I    thought   as   we 

88 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


jumped  in.  I  don't  know.  The  whole 
thing  was  a  blaze  of  color,  a  crash  of  shells 
and  German  S.  O.  S.  signals  in  the  air,  as 
I  made  for  the  trench  mortar.  My  mind 
centered  on  that  one  thing  in  front  of  me, 
somewhere  in  that  trench.  I  merely  felt 
the  presence  of  those  two  trench  walls. 
Dimly,  vaguely,  I  knew  I  was  in  the  Ger- 
man lines,  and  believe  me  or  not,  a  great 
feeling  of  joy  surged  over  me.  Mad  ex- 
citement possessed  me  and  all  around  the 
roar  and  crash  of  artillery  added  to  it  when, 
Heavens!  There  was  a  German,  right  at 
the  corner  of  a  traverse.  He  was  helmet- 
less  and  without  a  rifle,  but  worse  yet,  he 
was  carrying  one  of  their  stick  bombs. 

It  flashed  into  my  mind,  ''you  or  he.  Not 
you!"  and  I  jumped  for  him. 

Before  he  could  pull  the  string  on  that 
bomb  w^e  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  trench 
together.  It  was  rotten,  but  the  instinct  of 
self  preservation  is  always  uppermost  in  the 
human  mind. 

89 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Before  I  could  get  up,  the  other  fellows 
rushed  over  me,  headed  for  the  trench  mor- 
tar, and  then  I  ran  after  them. 

Don't  think  I  forgot  that  German.  I 
never  have,  and  I  never  will.  A  memory 
is  one  of  the  curses  on  those  who  indulge 
in  war. 

Then,  though  everything  was  confusion, 
instinctively  I  went  where  I  should  have 
gone.  Instinctively  all  of  us  did  what  we 
were  trained  to  do. 

The  trench  mortar  was  destroyed  effi- 
ciently, when  a  green  light  flashed  up  into 
the  night.  It  was  our  signal  to  return,  and 
we  started  back  the  way  we  had  come.  We 
passed  some  engineers  standing  at  some  dark 
shafts  which  went  down  into  the  ground. 
The  stairs  led  into  German  dugouts,  and 
just  as  we  passed  there  was  a  muffled  roar, 
the  earth  heaved  for  a  second,  then  subsided 
again  and  the  staircase  disappeared. 

We  ran  on  until  we  saw  our  officer  stand- 
ing above  us.    He  reached  down  his  hand, 

90 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


we  grasped  it,  and  he  helped  us  out,  saying 

as  he  did,  "Got  six  of  the Boches. 

Scoot  for  home."    And  we  scooted. 

There  another  officer  was  waiting,  jump- 
ing up  and  down  with  excitement.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  trying  to  take  down  our 
names  as  we  reported  in. 

"Got  six  prisoners.  Report  at  battalion 
headquarters  in  reserve,"  he  told  us  as  he 
continued  his  jumping  up  and  down. 

Away  we  went  down  the  trench,  happy — 
nervously  happy,  so  that  we  spoke  in  an 
unnatural  tone.  We  had  been  in  hand-to- 
hand  conflict  with  the  enemy  and  had  not 
been  afraid.  That  was  what  pleased  us  the 
most.  We  had  met  our  crisis  and  come 
through  without  flinching  and  with  credit 
to  ourselves,  our  battalion,  and  if  you  want 
to  carry  it  that  far,  to  our  country.  And  by 
good,  clean,  fair  methods  of  fighting. 

By  the  time  we  entered  headquarters  nor- 
mal feeling  took  possession  of  us  and  we 
swanked. 

91 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


The  brigadier  and  the  colonel  were  there 
and  shook  hands  again  with  each  one  of  us. 
Then  while  we  waited  for  the  rest  of  our 
crowd  to  come  in  the  men  in  reserve  gath- 
ered tightly  about  us.  ''Did  you  kill  any- 
body?" ''How  does  it  feel?"  "Did  you  get 
any  souvenirs?"  "What  were  their  trenches 
like?"  and  a  million  other  questions  that  we 
couldn't  answer. 

Our  officer  came  in  and  reported  to  the 
general  "all  in,  sir.  One  casualty,  Private 
.  Six  prisoners  captured,  one  ma- 
chine gun  destroyed,  enemy  trench  mortar 
emplacement  gone." 

"Very  good  work,  sir.  Take  your  men 
to  billets.  I  congratulate  you  all,"  said  the 
general. 

We  marched  away,  a  weird  looking  lot. 
The  sweat  running  off  our  faces  had  left 
streaks  of  dirty  grey  on  them.  Our  hands 
and  clothes  were  masses  of  mud.  The 
butcher  was  gone,  he  and  his  cleaver.  It  is 
he  who  was  the  casualty.    He  had  gone  mad 

92 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


with  excitement  and  chased  a  Boche,  still 
madder  with  excitement,  into  the  edge  of 
our  barrage,  just  as  a  shell  exploded.  For 
a  second  their  figures  had  been  silhouetted 
in  the  flame,  then  blackness.  Now  as  we 
trooped  away  from  headquarters  to  our  de- 
tail camp  the  line  we  had  left  was  a  crash- 
ing mass  of  shells.  All  our  batteries  were 
firing  and  the  Germans  were  retaliating  on 
our  lines  so  that  over  it  all  hung  a  glare  as 
of  a  city  afire.  We,  however,  satisfied  with 
ourselves,  turned  our  heads  from  it  and  our 
thoughts  toward  billets. 


The  Bullring  was  not  a  jaunting  place 
for  matadors.  Far  from  it.  It  was  as 
bloody,  though,  as  a  Spanish  arena  after  a 
matinee.  It  was  a  bit  of  badly  mussed 
ground  toward  which  our  friend  Fritz, 
across  the  wire,  with  malicious  intent,  dis- 
charged men,  bullets,  gas,  grenades  and 
bombs  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions  up  to 
and  including  ''Minnies"  and  ''sausages." 
And  we  didn't  have  to  wave  a  red  flag  for 
them  either. 

It  also  received  shells  of  all  calibres  and 
from  all  ranges,  not  to  mention  the  constant, 
undivided  attention  of  a  highly  skilled  lot 
of  snipers  who  patiently  waited  until  some 
of  our  people  worked  up  a  fatal  curiosity 
for  "just  one  second's  peep  over." 

In  return  for  all  this  we  discharged  rifles, 
machine  guns  and  bombs  forward  toward 

94 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Fritz  and  our  battered  and  mutilated  pals 
backward,  down  the  trail  to  Blighty. 

This  was  the  Bullring — one  of  the  many 
peculiar  places  on  that  long,  sinuous  line 
that  stretches  the  hundreds  of  miles  from 
Switzerland  to  the  sea.  There  it  was,  and 
there  it  stuck,  like  a  huge  boil  on  a  man's 
neck,  running  out  in  a  half  circle  of  about 
two  hundred  yards  to  within  twenty- five 
yards  of  the  Boches,  and  then  dropping 
gradually  back  until  it  reached  the  more 
respectable  distance  of  perhaps  a  hundred 
yards  from  our  enemy. 

Here  in  this  Bullring,  in  nine  different 
groups  of  two  men  each,  eighteen  men  sat 
night  and  day  playing  even  a  better  game 
than  poker.  Truly  enough  was  ^'the  sky  the 
limit."  Some  won,  some  lost.  Those  who 
won,  after  days  of  it,  staggered  out  through 
the  mud  when  relieved  and  made  for  billets 
behind  the  line,  and  rest.  And  they  would 
think  no  more  of  the  Bullring. 

Those  who  lost;  well,  some  went  in  their 

95 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


sleep,  never  knowing;  others,  even  when 
awake,  went,  never  knowing.  For  the  Bull- 
ring treated  you  well  in  this,  that  you  went 
quick  and  sure.    There  was  no  uncertainty. 

The  Bullring  was  so  bad,  in  fact,  that  only 
the  sentries  lived  in  it.  Their  reliefs  stayed 
a  hundred  yards  in  the  rear  until  time  for 
them  to  go  up.  The  reliefs  were  two  men 
to  a  post,  twelve  hours  on  and  twelve  hours 
off.  We  on  the  post  arranged  between  our- 
selves how  much  each  fellow  should  do. 

So,  one  bright  night,  on  our  next  trip  into 
the  line,  we  found  ourselves  in  this  trench 
behind  the  Bullring,  shivering  with  the 
cold,  while  our  officer  got  us  ready  to  go  up 
and  relieve  the  sentries  on  duty.  We  were 
to  have  the  night  shift,  little  Tommy  and  I. 
We  had  to  take  eight  and  nine  posts,  the  two 
furtherest  away,  because  we  were  short  of 
men. 

A  few  minutes  later,  leaving  our  packs 
behind  us  and  taking  only  haversacks,  rifles 
and  ammunition.  Tommy  and  I  started  off 

96 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


to  find  eight  and  nine  posts.  We  had  never 
done  duty  here  before,  but  we  had  heard  of 
the  place.  There  was  not  a  man  on  our 
sector  but  had  heard  of  it. 

We  struggled  through  the  mud  of  a  com- 
munication trench  until  it  turned  off  to  the 
right  and  left.  We  took  the  turn  to  the  left 
and  passed  number  one  post.  From  here  on 
we  stumbled  along,  and  blacker  than  black 
it  had  become.  Every  so  often  we  were 
challenged  quietly,  but  with  an  intensity 
that  brought  a  quick  reply  from  us.  It  was 
all  business,  this  close  to  the  enemy,  and  no 
mistake. 

Once  we  stopped  for  breath  and  stood 
long  enough  to  whisper  to  each  other  a  sul- 
phuric opinion  on  the  appearance  of  the 
Bullring.  Parapets  were  down,  firing  plat- 
forms were  down;  everything  was  down. 
What  hadn't  slid  in,  had  been  blown  in,  and 
that  not  long  before  if  we  could  judge  by 
the  smell  of  powder  in  the  air.  While  we 
were  grunting  our  way  through  a  particu- 

97 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


larly  nasty  spot  we  rounded  a  corner  and 
were  challenged  for  the  eighth  time. 

^Who's  that?" 

"Relief." 

"What  battalion?" 

" battalion." 

"Righto,  mates.  Glad  to  see  you.  Did 
number  eight  post  challenge?" 

"Thought  you  were  number  eight,"  we 
whispered. 

"No,  I'm  nine.  Guess  eight  musta  died. 
He  and  his  partner  got  a  'Minnie'  in  there 
at  'stand  to.'  One  snuffed  right  out.  Other 
guy  was  pretty  badly  hit,  but  thought  he 
could  stick  it  till  relief.  War's  hell,  ain't 
it?  My  mate's  in  the  corner  there.  Hogged 
one  o'  their  bombs  this  afternoon.  Well,  so 
long,  fellows.  We're  comin'  back  for  those 
boys  before  morning." 

And  he  was  gone,  leaving  us  to — we 
couldn't  see  what,  it  was  so  dark.  We 
waited  for  the  enemy's  flares  to  go  up  and 
show  us.    With  the  first  light  we  saw  the 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


sentry  sitting  in  the  corner,  the  mud  reach- 
ing nearly  to  his  shoulders.  He  was  wait- 
ing for  his  pals  to  come  and  bury  him,  but 
they  never  did.  Anyway,  the  back  of  the 
trench  slid  in  on  top  of  him  a  few  minutes 
later  and  we  saw  him  no  more. 

Another  flare  convinced  us  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  sleep,  so  Tommy  and  I  agreed  to 
keep  watch  together.    Owing  to  the  scarcity 
of  labor,  we  decided  that  the  best  way  was 
to  patrol  both  posts,  firing  here  and  there 
between  them  and  thus  attempt  to  persuade 
Fritz  there  were  lots  of  us  waiting  for  him. 
We  started  for  number  eight  to  open  our 
campaign  and  in  going  through  the  trench. 
Tommy's  foot  touched  the  body  of  one  of 
the  day  sentries.    We  scratched  around  in 
the  mud  until  we  could  get  a  good  grip  on 
his  body  to  pull  him  out.     It  was  ghastly 
work,  and  we  shook  until  our  teeth  chat- 
tered, but  we  tugged  and  we  pulled  until 
we  brought  him  to  the  surface.    The  man 
had  been  buried  in  the  mud.    We  couldn't 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


see  his  face,  nor  where  ^'he  had  got  it."  He 
was  heavy,  though,  and  we  let  him  rest  on 
the  top  of  the  muck  until  we  regained  our 
breath.  But  he  started  to  sink  again  as 
though  he  liked  the  soft  bed  from  which 
we  had  dragged  him.  So,  toiling  and  puf- 
fing, we  again  caught  hold  and  rolled  him 
up,  over  the  back  of  the  trench,  to  lie  there 
until  we  should  have  time  to  bury  him.  We 
looked  for  the  other  fellow,  but  he  was 
under  a  pile  of  sandbags.  He  didn't  hinder 
our  movements  and  we  let  him  be. 

Our  house  now  was  as  clean  as  we  could 
make  it,  and  we  settled  down  to  routine. 
We  moved  from  one  point  to  another, 
firing,  then  stood  in  the  mud  shaking  with 
cold,  whispering  to  each  other  of  friends 
who  had  gone,  of  home,  or  when  the  war 
would  end.  That  was  in  1915.  We  said 
the  end  would  come  in  the  autumn  of  '16. 

Everything  might  have  been  lovely  in  our 
garden,  but  even  now  when  I  think  of  it  I 
shudder.  When  we  searched  for  cigarettes, 
100 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


they  were  there  all  right,  but— oh!  the 
agony  of  it,  they  were  spoiled  by  the  mud 
which  had  soaked  through  our  clothes.  The 
delicious,  soothing  consolation  of  a  smoke 
was  denied  us.  How  it  hurt!  My  watch 
said  three  o'clock.  From  then  to  morning 
without  a  smoke  is  terrible  punishment 
when  you  are  in  sticky  waters  above  your 
knees  and  your  job  needs  your  attention 
every  minute. 

Morning  came  at  last,  however,  and  the 
report  went  in  from  our  O.  C.  ''Night  nor- 
mal."    We  dropped  back  to  our  sleeping 
quarters,   a  tot  of   rum,   breakfast,   and   a 
smoke.    Then  Tommy  and  I  tumbled  into 
our  sandbag  bedroom  and  the  war  knew  us 
no  more  until   the  late   afternoon.     That 
found  us  rested  and  more  conscious  of  the 
scamperings  of  the  rats.     One,  nibbling  at 
Tommy's  shoe  at  the  place  where  it  covered 
his  pet  corn,  roused  him  from  his  slumbers 
into  a  temper  fearful  to  contemplate  and 
that  boded  ill  for  the  rat.     But  Tommy 

101 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


didn't  catch  him,  for  we  were  both  rolled 
in  the  same  blanket.  I  was  tossed  out,  how- 
ever, during  his  struggles  to  murder  the 
elusive  rodent.  I  submit  that  that  is  not 
the  most  pleasant  way  to  be  wakened.  The 
rat  was  gone  and  Tommy  was  mad.  I  had 
lost  my  blanket  and  I  was  mad.  We  said 
many  things  to  each  other  by  way  of  break- 
fast and  then  sat  with  our  backs  against  the 
wall,  looking  out  through  a  little  hole  to  a 
gray  waste  of  mud  and  dripping  water.  We 
began  again,  almost  in  one  breath,  but  this 
time  we  told  ourselves  every  disagreeable 
thought  we  ever  had  had  concerning  the 
war  and  everyone  having  the  least  thing  to 
do  with  it. 

Our  speech  was  rudely  interrupted  by  the 
sergeant,  who  put  his  head  through  a  hole, 
asked  us  the  name  of  our  hotel,  and  would 
we  mind  going  to  the  Bullring  for  duty. 
Being  only  privates,  of  course  we  didn't 
mind.  At  least,  we  said  we  didn't.  Any- 
way, darkness  again  found  us  making  our 
way  up  to  the  old  post. 

102 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


We  arrived  to  find  only  one  sentry.  As 
usual,  during  the  day  his  pal's  bump  of 
curiosity  had  grown  larger  than  his  bump 
of  discretion,  and  he  had  ^'gone  west."  He 
had  peeped  over  the  top  for  ''just  one  sec- 
ond." The  other  man  had  been  alone  with 
him  for  most  of  the  day  and  was  not  loath 
to  leave. 

So  our  night  began. 

Things  were  quiet — it  was  a  compara- 
tively quiet  part  of  the  line.  We  fired  an 
occasional  shot,  now  from  here,  now  from 
there,  and  then  Fritz,  exasperated  beyond 
control,  would  send  over  a  bomb  or  two. 
But  our  luck  held,  and  by  constantly  travel- 
ing back  and  forth  we  managed  to  dodge 
everything. 

In  patroling,  though,  we  had  to  continu- 
ally pass  the  dead  sentry,  and  in  all  the 
blackness,  that  man's  face  stood  out  against 
the  background  like  a  searchlight.  Not  be- 
cause it  was  white,  and  clean,  for  it  wasn't. 
But  we  knew  it  was  there,  and  we  couldn't 
keep  our  eyes  away.    We  tried  to  cover  it 

103 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


up,  but  each  time  we  tried  the  wind  would 
blow  away  the  covering,  and  there  the  face 
stayed,  shining  out  in  the  darkness  until  it 
began  to  sap  our  nerve.  We  argued 
whether  we  should  smear  it  with  mud  and 
finally  we  agreed  to,  but  at  the  last  moment 
we  hadn't  the  courage. 

In  desperation,  we  decided  to  bury  him. 
So  while  Tommy  ran  our  own  little  cam- 
paign I  dug  just  behind  the  trench  until  I 
was  tired.  Then  Tommy  dug,  and  I  pa- 
troled.  While  we  were  still  busy  with  the 
entrenching  tools  our  officer  came  along 
'Visiting."  It  was  in  no  sense  a  social  call. 
He  just  wanted  to  be  sure  we  were  on  the 
job.  When  we  told  him  what  we  were 
doing,  he  pitched  in  and  helped  us,  borrow- 
ing the  entrenching  tool  of  the  one  patrol- 
ing. 

In  a  little  while  we  got  the  hole  about 
three  feet  deep.  This  was  the  best  we  could 
do,  and  we  were  just  hoisting  the  dead  man 
over  the  rear  wall  of  the  trench  when  the 

104 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Boches  spotted  us.  Then  we  had  to  lay  off 
for  about  half  an  hour.  Our  ofHcer  sat 
there  in  the  trench  and  chatted  with  us 
while  the  machine  guns  played  "Taps"  over 
our  heads  for  the  man  we  were  waiting  to 
bury. 

Finally  we  crept  out  again  and  rolled  him 
into  his  hole,  pushing  the  dirt  in  on  him. 
We  left  him  there  with  nothing  to  mark 
his  resting  place.  We  had  nothing  to  mark 
it  with. 

Tommy  and  I  were  fagged  out  and  when 
our  officer  left  us  with  a  cheery  "Good 
night,"  we  built  up  a  little  seat  of  sandbags 
just  in  the  middle  of  the  two  posts  and  sat 
down  to  rest  and  chat,  every  now  and  then 
walking  to  either  side  and  firing  a  shot  just 
to  let  Fritz  know  we  were  there.  We  had 
been  sitting  quietly  for  a  little  while,  talk- 
ing in  whispers.  Flares  from  the  enemy 
were  sent  up  regularly  and  that  told  us  there 
was  no  mischief  brewing. 

All  of  a  sudden,  Fritz  turned  loose  with 

105 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


his  field  batteries.  The  shells  went  whiz- 
zing over  our  heads,  bursting  just  a  little  in 
our  rear.  We  grabbed  each  other.  The 
next  second  there  were  half  a  dozen  or  more 
splashes  in  the  mud  at  number  nine  post. 

'We're  raided,"  flashed  through  both  our 
minds.  We  jumped  to  the  corner,  bayonets 
just  at  the  edge,  and  waited  either  for  a 
bomb,  or  for  a  Boche  to  show  himself.  I 
could  hear  Tommy's  heart  beat  and  I  know 
he  heard  mine,  but  that  was  all — not 
another  sound!  We  crept  around  the  cor- 
ner. Nothing  in  sight.  We  crept  to  our 
old  seat.  Still  nothing  to  be  seen.  Cau- 
tiously we  went  to  number  nine.  The  only 
thing  in  the  trench  was  the  parapet.  Not 
liking  its  elevation  and  the  weight  of  lead 
it  carried,  it  slid  down  and  caused  the  splash 
we  heard. 

The  sudden  firing  we  discovered  later 
was  due  to  too  much  noise  made  by  our 
horse  transport.  The  Boches  had  detected 
it  and  treated  it  as  they  do  all  unusual 
noises. 

106 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Another  hour  and  quiet  reigned  again,  so 
Tommy  and  I  smoked  and  talked  until 
dawn  and  relief. 

During  the  day  orders  came  for  winter 
relief  schedule  to  go  into  effect  and  we  were 
relieved  that  night. 


107 


VI 


Going  into  the  trenches  is  one  thing. 
Staying  there  is  something  quite  different, 
but  coming  out  is  by  far  the  most  exciting 
of  all  to  the  old  foot  slogger.  He  has  got 
"in,"  done  his  tour,  come  through  it  all  in 
the  pink,  and  now  it  is  up  to  him  to  get 
out  and  in  the  process  keep  his  skin  whole, 
if  it  is  possible. 

It  is  ticklish  work  to  make  a  relief  and 
calls  for  all  a  soldiers  ingenuity,  but  one 
hour's  glorious  swim  through  the  mud  and 
he  is  safe  behind  the  lines  with  six  days 
in  comfortable  billets  ahead  of  him.  That 
hour  is  a  tense  one,  however,  especially  in 
winter.  During  the  long  season  of  cold 
and  snow  and  rain  it  takes  all  the  platoon's 
time  to  keep  the  fire  trenches  in  condition 
without  bothering  about  communication 
trenches.    The  result  is  that  all  movements 

108 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


must  be  made  on  top  of  the  ground  with 
every  possibility  of  discovery. 

Greatly  elated  over  getting  out  before  we 
had  expected  it,  we  threw  on  our  equipment, 
looked  frantically  here  and  there  for  mis- 
placed gas  helmets,  left  in  a  moment  of 
carelessness  on  a  firing  platform  or  in  some 
dugout,  dived  into  a  corner  for  some  for- 
gotten bit  of  the  kit  or  searched  the  muddy 
bottom  of  the  trench  for  a  tool  dropped 
while  we  were  cutting  up  the  duck  walk  or 
notice  boards  to  make  a  fire. 

The  order  came  down  the  line  to  move 
off  in  single  file  in  a  sort  of  follow  the  leader 
game.  It  was  impossible  to  locate  all  the 
stuff  we  had  brought  in  with  us,  so  with 
some  of  us  minus  parts  of  equipment  that 
old  John  Bull  had  paid  good  money  for,  we 
started  off  ''on  the  top,"  speeded  on  oufway 
by  the  chaps  w^ho  had  relieved  us. 

We  moved  with  wings  on  our  heels,  now 
that  the  responsibility  of  holding  that  piece 
of  line  was  off  our  shoulders.    The  pace  in 

109 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


front  of  us,  if  anything,  was  too  slow,  as 
panting  and  puffing  we  pulled  one  leg  after 
the  other  through  the  muck  and  mire  to- 
ward a  little  ridge  over  which  we  had  to 
make  our  way.  While  crossing  this  ridge, 
which  required  about  five  minutes,  we  were 
in  plain  view  of  the  enemy  during  daylight. 
At  night  we  always  chanced  it  and  the  five 
minutes.  It  would  take  twenty  minutes  fol- 
lowing the  contours  of  the  ground  and  keep- 
ing out  of  sight.  The  few  minutes  we  were 
chancing  the  ridge,  though,  had  the  twenty 
minutes  beat  silly  as  far  as  we  were  con- 
cerned. 

We  were  struggling  for  the  ridge  and  we 
had  just  reached  the  middle  of  the  slope 
where  we  were  in  plain  view  of  old  Fritz 
when  something  cracked. 

It  was  one  of  those  inexplicable  things 
which  sometimes  happen.  For  some  reason, 
Fritz^s  suspicions  were  aroused.  Maybe 
our  last  raid  had  made  him  nervous.  Up 
shot  Very  lights  and  flares  by  the  dozen. 

110 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Some  of  them  were  parachute  lights,  the 
latter  hanging  in  the  air  like  arc  lamps,  and 
they  seemed  to  glory  in  what  they  exposed 
to  those  lynx-eyed  machine  gunners. 

There  was  no  camouflage  for  us.  There 
we  were  in  plain  view,  perfect  targets. 
There  was  no  dilly-dallying.  We  flopped 
in  the  mud  where  we  stood.  You  might 
wonder  why  we  didn't  make  a  dash  for  it 
and  cross  the  crest,  but  with  twelve-inch 
mud  and  a  fifty-pound  pack  it  sounds  easier 
than  it  is.  The  flash  of  rifle  and  machine 
gun  fire,  the  flare  of  exploding  bombs,  with 
the  occasional  crash  of  a  bursting  shell  made 
a  vivid  streak  of  light  right  along  the  line. 
A  poet,  an  artist,  or,  beyond  all,  a  war  cor- 
respondent, might  have  regarded  it  as  a 
majestic  spectacle.  To  us,  it  was  just  plain, 
ordinary  hell.  You  see,  things  were  all 
coming  our  way.    Nothing  was  going  back. 

We  burrowed  just  like  hogs  into  that 
mud,  packs  hunched  over  our  heads  with 
an  ostrich  idea  that  so  long  as  our  heads 
111 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


were  covered  we  were  perfectly  safe.  We 
were  in  the  mud,  though,  and  the  longer 
we  staj^ed  the  further  in  we  got.  It  oozed 
through  to  the  skin  and  half  covered  us 
until,  lying  there,  we  could  put  out  our 
tongues  and  lap  up  the  porridge  like  a  cat. 

After  awhile  our  artillery  spoke  up  and 
sent  over  some  high  explosive  shrapnel. 
This  occurred,  however,  only  after  the  com- 
mander who  had  relieved  us  telephoned  in 
to  battery  headquarters  that  we  had  just 
gone  out  and  must  be  stuck  some  place. 
H.  E.  shrapnel  is  anything  but  pleasant  stuff 
and  since  not  all  the  Boches  are  marble 
headed  the  racket  died  down  as  quickly 
as  it  had  commenced,  except  for  a  spas- 
modic squirt  from  a  machine  gun  occa- 
sionally. 

We  were  able  to  disregard  such  a  little 
thing  as  a  nervous  machine  gunner  and  we 
began  to  work  ourselves  out  of  our  holes. 
We  found  by  that  time  we  were  in  pretty 
deep — so  deep  it  required  a  little  coaxing  to 

112 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


reach  the  surface.  We  tried  to  push  our- 
selves out,  but  it  was  useless  exertion,  because 
with  no  solids  below  for  support,  our  arms 
sank  right  to  the  shoulders.  Then  some  one 
had  an  inspiration  and  rolled  out  just  like 
a  horse  rolls  when  he  has  been  turned  into 
the  pasture.  So  down  the  line  came  the  tip : 
''Roll  out  and  lead  on." 

Some  of  the  boys  couldn't  roll  out.  They 
had  left  us  for  a  better  place  than  billets. 
Their  rest  would  be  eternal,  but  it  took 
friendly  kicks  and  curses  to  find  this  out. 
In  five  cases  there  was  no  answer.  In  three 
there  were  groans.  These  three  chaps  our 
stretcher  bearers  looked  after.  The  others 
we  stripped  of  their  equipment  and  divided 
the  load  between  us,  all  excepting  ten  of  the 
biggest  men  who  volunteered  to  get  these 
five  boys  out  on  the  road  so  a  horse  trans- 
port could  take  them  back  for  a  decent 
burial.  It  required  almost  superhuman 
efifort,  but  we  managed,  and  an  hour  later 
found  us  on  the  old  familiar  cobble-stoned 

113 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


road  headed  for  billets  at  a  pace  that  would 
astonish  you.  The  trials,  the  troubles,  the 
dangers  of  this  last  tour  of  duty  were  behind 
us  and  already  they  were  nearly  forgotten. 

In  another  hour  we  were  in  our  huts. 
About  fourteen  by  twenty-four  feet  in  size, 
they  had  a  small  stove  in  the  center  and  a 
line  of  straw  down  either  side;  straw  clean 
for  a  minute,  or  until  we  flopped  on  it  with 
our  muddy  clothes  or  walked  over  it  with 
our  muddier  boots.  Candles  were  stuck  at 
infrequent  intervals  around  the  walls.  Some 
of  the  boys  began  at  once  to  clean  their 
clothes,  scraping  diligently  with  their 
knives,  and  all  the  while  chattering  about 
the  "feeds"  they  were  going  to  have  as  soon 
as  morning  came.  Some  already  had  fallen 
asleep. 

A  head  appeared  in  the  door  and  a  voice 
shouted:  "All  out  for  mail!" 

Have  you  ever  watched  a  close  world's 
series  game?  Well,  if  you  have,  you  think 
you  know  all  about  noise  and  excitement, 

114 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


but  when  ''AH  out  for  mail"  sounded 
through  that  door  the  twenty  or  thirty  men 
in  the  hut  got  more  excited  and  made  more 
noise  in  proportion  to  numbers  than  any 
crowd  the  Polo  Grounds  ever  held. 

Letters  and  parcels  from  home  are  more 
precious  out  there  a  thousand  fold  than  any- 
where else  on  earth.  The  mail  man  was 
almost  mobbed,  then  the  boys  stood  by  wait- 
ing breathlessly  as  he  called  each  name. 
When  one  of  them  heard  his  name  he  yelled 
with  all  the  abandon  of  a  maniac. 

It  is  almost  a  ceremony  with  some  bat- 
talions, the  arrival  of  the  mail  after  a  tour 
of  the  line.  They  have  it  brought  to  billets 
regardless  of  the  hour  in  which  they  arrive 
from  the  trenches.  It  was  one  of  our  pas- 
sions— ^we  must  have  our  mail. 

When  the  last  envelope,  the  last  package 
had  been  handed  out  shouts  of  delight  and 
peels  of  laughter  rang  from  every  hut.  You 
read  parts  of  your  letter  to  the  chap  next 
to  you,  overcome  by  the  sheer  joy  of  receiv- 

115 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


ing  it.  He  reads  his  to  you.  Parcels  were 
opened  and  things  were  unwrapped  and 
strewn  over  each  man's  allotted  bit  of  straw. 
All  the  while  he  talked  to  the  hut  at  large. 
Since  every  other  man  in  the  place  was  en- 
gaged in  the  same  way  there  was  very  little 
that  was  really  intelligible.  This  fellow 
was  expressing  his  approval  of  some  deli- 
cacy which  took  his  fancy.  His  neighbor 
snorted  his  disapproval  of  some  very  nice 
token  manufactured  by  an  energetic  con- 
cern long  on  imagination  but  short  on  real 
information  of  what  a  trench  warrior  needs. 
Everyone  was  as  happy  as  a  boy  with  a 
new  toy — that  is,  everyone  except  a  few. 
Some  men  there  are  bound  to  be  with  no 
home,  no  friends  beyond  their  immediate 
pals  out  there  with  them.  A  man  may  have 
every  inhuman  instinct,  he  may  be  tough, 
and  hard,  with  a  four-ply  calloused  soul, 
but  it  hurts  him  when  the  mail  comes  in  and 
there  is  none  for  him.  It  hurts  terribly! 
But  more  terrible  is  the  hurt  to  the  man 

116 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


who  has  family  and  friends  and  creeps  back 
to  the  hut  with  empty  hands.  He  knows 
there  is  no  reason  on  earth  why  some  one  of 
those  at  home  cannot  write,  and  it  stabs 
right  to  the  heart.  No  sympathy  helps. 
There  he  is,  undergoing  horrors  such  as 
never  were  known  before — undergoing 
them  for  the  sake  of  the  people  at  home. 
He  doesn't  need  appreciation,  he  doesn't 
want  it.  But  he  does  want  and  he  does  need 
a  bit  of  cheery  gossip  from  the  home  folk; 
how  Gertie  is  getting  along  in  the  shop, 
what  "movies"  Hannah  has  seen  lately,  how 
dad  is  doing  at  the  bench,  a  word  about  the 
last  pantomime. 

Remember  this  when  one  of  your  boys  is 
coming  back  to  billets. 

The  turmoil  from  the  mail  died  away. 
In  its  place  came  long  and  prodigious 
snores.  Morning  found  the  orderly  cor- 
poral dashing  madly  from  hut  to  hut  try- 
ing to  arouse  his  company.  He  did  this  by 
the  simplest  possible  method.     Every  hut 

117 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


was  told  that  all  the  others  were  pinching 
all  the  breakfast.  It  never  failed  to  be 
effective. 

Breakfast  over,  parade  for  inspection  was 
set  for  eleven  o'clock.  For  that  parade 
every  spot  of  mud  must  be  off  boot  and 
uniform,  rifle  and  bayonet  must  be  cleaned 
and  oiled,  you  must  be  shaved  and  washed 
and  every  bit  of  equipment  must  be  in  per- 
fect order. 

At  eleven,  we  fell  in,  clean,  spick  and 
span  as  though  we  had  never  seen  a  trench 
and  our  C.  O.  inspected  us.  One  man  had 
lost  his  gas  helmet  and  explained  that  his 
dugout  fell  in  and  buried  it.  The  officer 
couldn't  remember  the  incident  of  the 
caved-in  dugout,  however,  so  the  man's 
name  went  down  on  the  book  to  buy 
another.  A  second  chap  explained  that  his 
entrenching  tool  had  been  carried  away  by 
a  rat  when  he  had  laid  it  down  after  chop- 
ping some  kindling.  His  name  went  down 
to    buy    another    entrenching    tool.      Still 

118 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


another  hadn't  scraped  all  the  mud  from  his 
uniform  because  he  had  been  on  kitchen 
police,  so  he  stayed  on  police  for  another 
three  days.  So  things  went  until  finally 
we  were  dismissed  to  fall  in  at  half-past 
two  for  a  bath. 

Half  past  two  found  us  with  towels 
around  our  necks  and  marching  off  to  the 
divisional  baths,  located  in  an  old  ram- 
shackle building.  We  halted  outside.  As 
usual  a  platoon  already  was  inside  bathing, 
and  we  had  to  wait  until  they  were  finished. 
Outside  the  building  were  heaps  of  dirty 
clothes  ready  to  go  into  the  near-by  wash. 
As  the  platoon  ahead  of  us  came  out,  look- 
ing almost  sickly  pale  they  were  so  clean, 
we  marched  into  the  disrobing  room  and 
stripped.  Our  uniforms  we  handed  to  an 
attendant  who  shoved  them  into  a  fumi- 
gator  where  they  stayed  until  we  came  out. 
Our  soiled  laundry  we  carried  in  our  hands 
to  the  door  of  the  bathroom  proper,  where 
another  attendant  took  it  from  us. 

119 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


The  bathroom  was  about  forty  feet 
square,  with  barrels  cut  in  half  placed  all 
around  the  walls  and  plenty  of  cold  wind 
coming  in  through  the  cracks.  Each  man 
made  a  dive  for  a  tub  in  which  were  two 
pails  of  water,  one  hot  and  one  cold.  Here 
we  scrubbed  for  five  minutes  or  so,  then 
getting  out  of  the  tub  we  went  to  a  counter 
and  drew  clean  underclothing  and  a  towel. 
It  was  time  then  to  return  to  the  dressing 
room  where  we  got  our  uniforms  back 
smelling  worse  than  ever.  We  dressed,  and 
bath  time  was  over  for  another  fortnight. 

''Eats"  was  the  next  big  thing  of  the  day 
— not  government  ''eats,"  but  nice,  fluffy, 
light  omelettes,  cooked  as  only  Madame 
knows  how,  with  toast  and  coffee.  We  were 
now  luxuriously  bathed  and  fed.  The  only 
thing  lacking  was  amusement  and  we  got 
it  through  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  motion  pictures 
and  our  own  special  entertainments. 

Every   division   has   its   own   troupe   of 

120 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


entertainers  at  the  front.  These  men  are 
selected  for  their  talent.  They  give  per- 
formances every  night  to  the  different  com- 
panies. They  name  themselves,  taking  such 
titles  as  ^The  Whizzbangs,"  ^The 
Crumps,"  and  so  on. 

On  top  of  this  the  British  and  French 
governments  allow  the  men  and  women  of 
the  stage  in  London  and  Paris  to  take  trips 
to  the  front  at  different  times  and  before 
returning  they  manage  to  cover  ^'back  of 
the  lines"  all  along  the  front.  The  enter- 
tainments are  always  delightful  and  they 
are  very  much   appreciated  by  the  men. 

Battalions  also  have  their  own  concerts, 
which  are  always  amusing,  but  their  humor 
is  strictly  local.  One  not  living  with  the 
men  would  fail  to  catch  the  points  in  dia- 
logues and  songs  which  send  members  of 
the  battalion  into  peals  of  laughter. 

Thus  time  passes  rapidly.  ^^Six  days 
out"  are  crowded  full  of  concerts,  football 

121 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


and  clean  fun  for  the  men,  aided  by  the 
estaminets  which  sell  their  harmless  beer. 
So  when  troops  are  ordered  into  the  line 
again  they  have  been  refreshed  with  good 
fun  in  plenty,  they  have  played  hard  and 
again  are  ready  for  hard  work. 


122 


VII 

The  Bullring  and  its  neighborhood  had 
been  a  hard  strain  on  the  nerves  of  all  of 
us.  Taken  out  for  our  rest  in  billets,  dur- 
ing which  some  working  parties  were  sand- 
wiched in,  we  were  not  very  keen  to  get 
back  so  soon  for  another  tour  of  the 
trenches.  We  were  grousing  a  bit  at  our 
luck  when  a  battalion  orderly  stuck  his 
head  in  the  door  of  our  hut. 

"All  right,  you.  Report  at  battalion 
headquarters."    He  was  speaking  to  me. 

I  tumbled  out  and  ran  to  headquarters 
as  fast  as  I  could,  wondering  what  I  had 
done  to  call  down  the  wrath  of  the  mighty 
on  me.  I  thought  of  everything  which  was 
against  regulations  and  couldn't  figure  how 
I  could  have  been  caught. 

*Teave"  flashed  in  my  mind,  then  flashed 
right  out  again.    No  such  luck! 

123 


0\^R  THERE  AND  BACK 


Would  you  believe  it  though?  That  was 
what  my  summons  was  for.  I  walked  into 
the  orderly  room,  very  meek  and  mild, 
ready  to  receive  anything  coming  to  me. 
The  sergeant  just  glanced  at  me.  He  was 
busy,  for  the  battalion  was  going  into  the 
trenches  that  evening. 

^'This  is  for  you,'*  he  said,  ^^be  back  on 
time." 

And  he  handed  me  a  return  trip  ticket 
to  London,  or  as  is  known  in  the  British 
army,  a  warrant.  All  soldiers  from  France, 
on  leave,  travel  free  any  place  in  the  British 
Isles. 

I  looked  at  my  warrant,  the  sergeant,  and 
everybody  else  in  the  place,  then  in  a  trem- 
bling voice  said:  ^Thank  you,"  and  stag- 
gered out  into  the  fresh  air. 

Leave!  Ten  days  of  it!  I  couldn't  be- 
lieve it.  Then  the  fresh  air  cleared  my 
brain.  I  let  out  a  whoop  that  almost  scared 
the  headquarters  sentries  to  death  and 
started  down  the  road  as  hard  as  I  could 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


run  toward  our  hut.  I  went  through  the 
door  with  a  crash. 

'^Hurrah,  fellows,  leave!  I've  got  leave! 
To  hell  with  all  of  you!" 

So  I  raved  till  the  crowd  downed  me. 
We  wrestled  in  the  straw  until  we  were  out 
of  breath,  then  I  took  messages  from  the 
fellows  for  those  in  England,  took  orders 
for  things  to  be  sent  out,  took  on  a  dozen 
jobs  which  I  never  did.    Too  busy. 

As  the  rest  of  the  fellows  packed  up  to 
go  into  the  line,  I  packed  up  ready  to  go 
on  leave,  and  I  lost  precious  little  time 
about  it.  A  man  going  on  leave  takes  every- 
thing he  owns  with  him  except  his  ammu- 
nition. It  is  necessary  to  leave  this  behind 
because  the  fellows  over  there  are  very  sore 
on  the  pacifists. 

One  Scotty  went  home  on  leave  and  was 
in  a  "pub"  listening  to  a  pacifist  argument. 
They  were  going  to  do  this  and  that  and 
the  other  thing  and  were  generally  arrang- 
ing the  world  so  that  we  could  live  without 

125 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


argument.  The  Scotty  got  fed  up  with  lis- 
tening. He  drew  out  a  Mills  bomb  he 
had  in  his  pocket  which  he  had  brought 
home  as  a  souvenir,  and  tossed  it  under  the 
pacifists'  table.  ^Take  that,"  he  shouted. 
They  did,  and  in  consequence  no  one  is  al- 
lowed to  carry  home  anything  in  the  way 
of  explosives.  Otherwise  some  of  the  fel- 
lows would  carry  back  9.2  shells. 

I  didn't  bother  with  souvenirs.  I  was  my 
own  souvenir  and  it  didn't  take  me  long  to 
reach  railhead.  It  was  seven  miles  from 
our  billets,  but  I  made  it  in  record  time.  I 
never  stopped  once.  I  wanted  to  get  that 
train  and  get  it  I  did.  If  the  battalion  had 
ever  been  marched  at  that  speed  I  would 
have  howled  all  day.  So  would  everybody 
else,  but  it  was  a  case  of  going  on  leave 
now  so  it  didn't  matter.  That  train  would 
take  a  fearful  beating.  It  was  slow;  noth- 
ing could  describe  the  slowness  of  all  these 
trains.  Every  three  miles  they  stop  as 
though  to  get  their  breath  and  when  they 

126 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Stop,  half  a  dozen  Frenchmen  pile  in  until 
one  compartment  will  be  holding  about 
twenty  men  instead  of  ten. 

Now  everybody  loves  a  Frenchman.  I 
do.  I  think  they  are  a  marvelous  race; 
wonderful  fighters;  but  have  you  ever  been 
the  lone  Anglo-Saxon  in  a  compartment 
with  nineteen  French  ^Tommies"  with  all 
windows  closed  and  all  nineteen  of  them 
smoking  the  vilest  tobacco  and  chattering? 
— Heavens,  how  they  can  talk!  A  China- 
man is  dumb  beside  them. 

On  top  of  all  this,  have  it  happen  on  a 
train  with  no  schedule  and  an  engineer  with 
a  great  ambition  for  overtime  and  if  by  the 
time  you  reach  your  journey's  end  you  don't 
almost  hate  the  word  "French,"  then  you 
are  superhuman. 

Funny,  though,  but  I  didn't  mind  it 
much.  All  I  could  see  was  a  quick  run  on 
the  train  and  London.    So,  when  we  arrived 

at I  pulled  myself  out  of  the  human 

mess,  shook  myself,  counted  my  arms  and 

127 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


legs  and  finding  all  of  them  with  me,  I 
made  for  the  boat. 

The  boat  was  as  badly  crowded  as  the 
train,  but  everybody  spoke  English  and 
smoked  good  tobacco;  at  least  it  smelled 
good.  We  chattered  like  fury,  too,  but  you 
could  understand  it  and  everybody  was 
happy,  gloriously  happy,  as  we  pulled  out 
for  Blighty.  We  sat  with  our  lifebelts  on, 
all  over  the  decks  and  in  the  diflferent 
salons,  which,  being  overcrowded  over- 
flowed upon  the  staircases  so  that  once  a 
man  sat  down,  he  could  not  move  until  he 
reached  England.  The  boat  that  took  us 
across  was  very  fast  and  it  was  convoyed  by 
destroyers,  airships  and  goodness  knows 
what  not,  for  if  a  German  will  sink  a  Red 
Cross  ship  when  all  its  markings  are  per- 
fectly plain,  who  knows  what  he  would  do 
to  a  British  leave  boat? 

They  didn't  catch  us,  though,  so  we  piled 

off  the  boat  at and  rushed  for  the 

train. 

128 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


We  were  an  excited,  happy  mob.  Cries 
of  "here  ye  are,  Jerry,"  and  "comin'  ole 
top,"  flew  up  and  down  the  platform.  Fel- 
lows jumped  out  of  one  compartment  to  run 
to  another,  others  ran  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form just  out  of  sheer  joy  of  being  alive. 
They  were  actually  on  English  soil  again, 
and  had  to  do  something  to  keep  their  feel- 
ings from  running  over.  Everybody  tried 
to  send  telegrams  at  once  and  there  was 
much  confusion.  With  quite  a  bit  of  dif- 
ficulty we  were  all  put  aboard  and  we 
slipped  away  toward  London. 

The  crowds  on  the  street  waved  handker- 
chiefs and  cheered.  Back  came  the  cry 
from  some  one  of  our  crowd:  "Are  we 
downhearted?"  And  every  head,  sticking 
out  of  the  windows,  roared,  "No-o-o." 

The  town  passed,  we  settled  down  to  en- 
joy the  ride  and  anticipate  the  sight  of  loved 
ones. 

I  was  a  colonial,  though.  We  colonials 
would  have  to  go  another  six  thousand  five 

129 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


hundred  miles  to  meet  loved  ones,  and  the 
English  know  it  and  try  to  make  it  up  to 
us  in  their  open-hearted  way.  They  can't 
say  Presto!  and  produce  our  families,  but 
they  do  the  next  best  thing;  they  give  us 
their  homes  for  clubs,  with  beds,  sheets, 
bathrobes,  lounging  and  billiard  rooms, 
along  with  their  chefs  to  cook  the  food  we 
like,  and  they  even  wait  on  us.  Their  clubs, 
organized  years  ago,  which  some  men  spend 
all  their  lives  trying  to  pry  their  way  into, 
are  thrown  open  to  us.  We  own  them,  as 
far  as  these  people  are  concerned.  They 
even  open  their  private  homes  to  us  "for- 
eigners," do  these  splendid  people,  whom 
the  world  mock  as  haughty,  snobbish  Eng- 
lish. What  they  have  is  ours,  even  to  their 
own  privacy.  The  badge  of  entry,  your  in- 
troduction to  them,  both  the  highest  and 
the  lowest,  is  an  American,  Canadian,  Aus- 
tralian or  New  Zealand  uniform.  That  is 
all;  the  fact  that  you  are  away,  far  away, 
from  home. 

130 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


I  knew  this  and  while  I  knew  I  would 
miss  my  family,  I  didn't  worry.  I  would 
have  a  good  time  and  be  made  welcome  any- 
where. 

Fields  flash  by  as  we  travel  at  sixty 
miles  an  hour.  Soon,  almost  before  we 
know  it,  we  are  clanking  over  numerous 
switches  and  are  running  into  Victoria  sta- 
tion. Even  before  the  train  stops  the  fel- 
lows are  piling  out  and  rushing  for  the  gate, 
while  the  guards  frantically  shout  ^'Wait 
'til  she  stops!"  No  heed  is  given,  though. 
There,  just  ahead,  are  loved  ones  and  no  one 
can  wait. 

Swinging  open  a  gate  is  a  very  neat  young 
woman  of  the  railway.  She  is  a  ticket  col- 
lector and,  more  still,  a  woman  war  worker. 
I  watch  her  rather  than  the  crowd  of  those 
who  have  met  again  after  a  long  separation. 

There  is  no  cheering,  no  heroics;  an  ex- 
clamation, "John,"  "Mary,"  a  fervent  em- 
brace, a  kiss,  a  second's  look  into  each 
other's  eyes,  then  a  dash  for  a  'bus  or  a 

131 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


taxi,  and  home.  Ten  days,  after  all,  is  not 
much,  and  a  lot  must  be  done  in  that  time. 

For  those  who  must  cross  London  to  some 
other  station  for  a  connection,  it  appears  a 
formidable  task.  London  with  its  twistings 
and  turnings,  some  streets  running  on  end- 
lessly, and  to  me  it  seems,  aimlessly,  others 
running  short  distances  into  blind  alleys, 
landing  one  up  against  a  wall,  is  mystifying 
and  perplexing,  but  the  people  of  London 
don't  let  the  ^'Tommies''  who  pass  through 
their  great  city  get  lost.  Automobiles  are 
there  to  help  those  who  must  get  a  quick 
connection  or  lose  a  day  of  their  precious 
leave.  These  men  are  rapidly  sorted  out, 
piled  into  the  cars,  and  rushed  to  their 
trains. 

For  those  in  no  hurry,  aged  men,  even 
young  women,  appear  as  guides  and  lead 
the  way  to  a  nearby  club.  There  the  men 
eat  and  rest  until  train  time.  Or,  if  time 
permits,  the  guide  will  take  them  to  a  play 
or  show  them  some  interesting  sights. 

132 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


The  persons  who  do  this  are  men  too  old 
for  service  at  home  or  abroad  and  are 
known,  if  I  remember  right,  as  the  Volun- 
teer Home  Defense  Corps.  They  wear  a 
little  band  on  their  arm  with  the  royal  coat 
of  arms  and  the  letters  "G.  R."  The  person 
who  evolved  the  design  meant  it  for 
^'George  Reigns,"  but  the  "Tommies"  went 
them  one  better  and  call  these  men  "God's 
rejected."  Not  out  of  disrespect,  but  just 
because  they  are  "Tommies."  They  like 
the  guards;  they  wouldn't  know  what  to  do 
without  them,  and  the  grand  old  fellows 
come  out  in  any  kind  of  weather  to  shep- 
herd and  nurse  a  soldier  through  wicked 
old  London. 

To  those  of  us  who  are  going  to  stay  in 
London,  it  is  simple.  We  pile  into  a  taxi, 
say  "Canadian  Club,  Berkeley  Square," 
and  away  we  go. 

Everything  looks  great!  There  is  life, 
movement  which  is  free  and  without  hin- 
drance.    One  doesn't  have  to  continually 

133.-. 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


hide  in  a  trench.  The  relaxation  and  free- 
dom are  contagious.  We  feel  so  good  we 
sing.  People  look  around  and  smile.  They 
know  we  are  ^'Tommies"  back  from  the 
front  as  everybody  who  comes  from  there 
is  always  happy.  Singing,  we  arrive  at  the 
club,  pile  out,  give  the  driver  a  tip  that 
makes  his  eyes  pop  wide  open,  go  into  the 
club,  register,  and  then  a  bath.  As  I  regis- 
ter, I  think  of  "eats."  What  a  glorious  feed 
that  is  going  to  be! 

Our  beds  cost  us  sixteen  cents  a  night — 
a  bed  in  the  West  End  of  London.  Break- 
fast and  luncheon  cost  us  the  same.  Dinner 
at  night  is  twenty-five  cents.  It's  a  great 
club,  but  a  bath  is  all  we  want  now. 

A  tub  and  a  clean  change  of  clothing,  for 
the  club  also  gives  you  that  in  exchange  for 
your  dirty  things,  and  we  are  ready  to  go  to 
dinner,  so  three  of  us  stroll  out  into  the 
gathering  dusk.  We  go  down  along  Pica- 
dilly  to  a  favorite  spot  we  have  known  be- 
fore.   Buses  pass  us  and  on  every  one  is  a 

134 


OVER   THERE  AND  BACK 


woman  conductor.  A  man  conductor  is  as 
strange  a  sight  now  as  was  once  a  woman, 
but  the  girls  handle  the  job  right  well. 

We  go  to  our  old  haunt.  The  men  wait- 
ers are  gone.  The  girls  are  even  there,  and 
the  service  has  improved.  So  much  for  us 
mere  men.  We  eat— such  a  meal;  soup, 
fish,  meat— but  why  go  on?  The  girls 
carry  food  and  still  more  food  until  they  are 
amazed,  when  but  once  we  get  over  our 
awe  of  white  table  linen,  silver  and  glass- 
ware. Finally,  breathless  and  uncomfort- 
able, we  lean  back  for  a  smoke,  speechless 
but  happy. 

Recovering  our  breath  in  time,  we  pay 
our  bill  and  start  out  for  the  theater;  one 
with  a  revue  on.  We  don't  want  dramas. 
We  have  been  living  in  a  human  drama 
with  all  the  play-acting  cut  out,  a  drama 
with  life  and  death  as  the  entrance  and  exit; 
something  they  cannot  put  on  the  stage. 
What  we  want  is  musical  comedy;  a  laugh 
a  second,  with  lots  of  music  and  pretty  cho- 

135 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


ruses,  and  we  get  it.  With  luck,  we  find 
good  seats  for  the  best  show  in  town.  The 
house  is  packed,  the  fun  is  fast  and  furious. 
We  roar  with  laughter.  War  is  forgotten. 
Two  nights  before,  we  were  in  France, 
waiting  to  go  into  the  trenches.  To-night 
the  other  fellows  are  "in,"  thinking  and 
dreaming  of  the  time  when  they  will  see 
what  we  are  watching  now.  Next  week, 
the  week  after,  we  will  be  back  on  our  jobs. 
To-morrow  morning  the  civilians  will  be 
on  their's  under  the  abnormal  pressure  of 
war,  but  at  night,  every  one  plays  and  puts 
war  a  little  out  of  mind.  It  is  not  good  to 
be  too  serious  too  long. 

Theater  out,  we  go  to  the  street  and  come 
face  to  face  with  war  again.  The  streets  are 
practically  dark,  but  the  crowds,  none  the 
less,  are  flowing  back  and  forth  full  of  good- 
natured  chafT  at  the  inconveniences. 

We  go  to  a  "lobster  palace"  for  a  little 
supper.  Outside,  the  doors  and  windows 
are  pitch  black.     The  only  indication  of 

136 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


business  as  usual  is  the  liveried  attendant 
who  swings  open  the  door,  letting  us  into  a 
blaze  of  light,  the  smell  of  good  cigarettes 
and  the  sight  of  beautiful  women.  It  is 
something  our  eyes  are  hungry  for.  It  is 
what  we  dreamed  about  while  we  were 
standing  up  to  our  hips  in  mud,  and  now  we 
are  realizing  it  while  we  may.  We  take 
the  full  enjoyment  while  we  can  and  ^4sh 
ka  bibble."  We  eat  everything  that  is  good 
to  the  taste  and  bad  for  the  stomach,  but 
what  care  we?  It  is  leave,  grand  and  glo- 
rious ! 

When  we  finish  eating,  we  make  our  exit 
in  a  lordly  manner,  hailing  a  taxi  which 
drives  us  to  our  club,  where  we  go  to  bed. 
What  a  wonderful  feeling — beds,  and  no 
"stand  to"  in  the  morning!  Up  any  time  we 
like!    War  has  its  compensations,  after  all. 

The  next  day  we  are  out  early,  and  climb 
on  a  'bus  for  a  ride.  We  don't  know  where 
the  thing  is  going  and  don't  care.  The  girl 
comes  up,  collects  our  fares,  punches  a  re- 

137 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


ceipt,  all  very  businesslike;  smiles  as  any 
good-natured  person  would  do,  and  goes 
down  stairs. 

They  are  wonders,  these  women.  They 
are  every  place.  Our  'bus  passed  a  stun- 
ning team  of  horses  drawing  a  big  van 
through  Fleet  street.  Perched  up  in  the  air 
on  a  level  with  our  eyes  was  a  young  girl, 
the  reins  in  her  hands.  By  her  side  was  her 
assistant,  both  dressed  in  serviceable  uni- 
forms, with  caps  perched  cockily  on  the 
sides  of  their  heads  and  strong  boots,  lacing 
to  well  above  the  ankles.  The  teamsteress 
had  one  foot  resting  lightly  on  the  brake 
and  there  they  were,  sailing  along  as  mer- 
rily as  could  be. 

You  can't  help  but  admire  the  women  of 
the  British  Isles,  and  it  will  keep  our  girls 
jumping  to  keep  up  with  them. 

Some  time  afterward  I  saw  a  girl  in 
Edinburgh  driving  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
street  cars  that  have  the  hand  brakes,  and 
Edinburgh  is  no  level  plain. 

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OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Others  unload  freight  cars;  they  farm; 
they  are  carpenters,  and  they  drive  ambu- 
lances and  taxis.  They  are  in  France.  They 
are  like  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  I  am  sure 
that  like  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  when  'Tommy" 
gets  to  that  world-famed  spot  where  the 
fires  are  always  burning,  she  will  be  stand- 
ing outside  helping  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  make 
ice-cold  lemonade  for  the  poor  fellows  as 
they  arrive. 

The  munition  factories  employ  them  by 
the  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  by  a  good 
many  score  have  they  given  their  lives  for 
their  country  as  the  result  of  accidental  ex- 
plosions in  these  places.  They  are  glorious 
women!  My  hat,  everybody's  hat,  is  off  to 
them.  The  only  tragic  thing  about  it  is  that 
we  men  are  finding  out  how  really  useless 
we  are. 

Our  days  are  crowded  with  excitement 
and  sight  seeing;  'bus  rides,  taxi  rides,  din- 
ners, theaters,  and  peaceful  sleep.  A  great 
and  glorious  existence! 

139 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Coming  out  of  the  theater  one  night  the 
quiet  of  the  city  was  gone.  The  air  was  full 
of  rapid  pops.  A  raid  was  on.  The  sky 
was  full  of  searchlights,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  one  another,  traveling  with  great 
sweeps  like  giant  fingers  seeking  to  point 
out  to  the  anti-air  craft  guns  where  the 
raider  was  hiding.  The  air  was  full  of 
little  red  flashes  as  the  shells  burst.  The 
tops  of  the  buildings  where  the  guns  were, 
seemed  to  spit  little  flames  like  sparks  com- 
ing out  of  a  chimney.  The  people  in  the 
street  were  curious  and  stood  out  in  the 
open  looking  up  until  constables  chased 
them  in.  Some  caught  taxis,  telling  the 
driver  to  go  where  the  bombs  were  drop- 
ping. 

We  hailed  a  taxi,  and  even  as  we  started 
to  tell  the  driver  where  to  go,  there  was  a 
distant  boom.  ^'Go  to  where  those  noises 
are,"  we  told  him  as  we  climbed  in  and 
were  off.  As  we  drove  along  there  were  five 
or  six  more  dull  roars,  although  a  little 

140 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


louder  than  the  first.  As  we  heard  them  the 
driver  speeded  his  machine  and  we  tore 
along  at  a  dizzy  rate  through  the  dark 
streets,  the  only  light  coming  from  the 
searchlights  as  they  swung  across  the  sky. 
Our  speed  was  slackened  by  people,  all 
streaming  along  in  the  same  direction. 
They  were  full  of  morbid  curiosity  and  as 
we  worked  our  way  along,  the  stream  be- 
came thicker. 

It  is  a  peculiar  thing,  human  nature;  it 
will  send  people  miles  to  see  some  one  else 
suffering. 

A  special  constable  halted  our  cab.  We 
could  go  no  further.  We  paid  cabby,  and 
as  all  vehicles  were  needed  to  carry 
wounded  he  stayed  to  take  on  his  other 
cargo — to  hospital;  moaning  women,  suf- 
fering from  the  shock  of  a  loss;  lacerated 
children,  crying,  wondering  and  not  under- 
standing what  had  happened  to  them. 

That  was  the  toll  of  the  night's  raid,  that 
and  demolished  houses.    Also  a  big  hole, 

141 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


blown  in  the  middle  of  a  street  and  all  the 
windows  in  the  neighborhood  shattered  by 
the  concussion,  to  say  nothing  of  the  peo- 
ple's nerves. 

A  few  homes  demolished  beyond  repair, 
a  few  families  gone  in  one  second  from  a 
fair  amount  of  prosperity  to  absolute  pov- 
erty, left  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with 
everything  they  owned  in  the  world  on  their 
backs — that  is  a  raid.  But  not  for  long  are 
they  wanting  for  clothing.  More  fortunate 
neighbors  take  them  in.  But  what  human 
hand  can  return  a  baby  or  little  child,  put 
to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  by  a  mother  who  sees 
the  same  baby  at  midnight  disappear  in  a 
mass  of  brick  dust  and  the  smoke  of  an  ex- 
ploding bomb?  We  see  the  grief  of  that 
mother  as  she  is  led  away,  saved  by  some 
mysterious  freak  of  fortune.  Then  our 
hearts  are  filled  with  bitter  rage  and  steeled 
for  the  things  that  must  come  on  the  battle- 
field. 

But  then,  when  the  time  comes  and  the 

142 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Huns  shout  '^Kamerad"  we,  being  Anglo- 
Saxon,  send  them  behind  our  lines  to  live 
happy  and  content  until  war  is  finished, 
when  we  shall  send  them  home  to  their 
families. 

We  had  to  walk  back  to  the  club.  Our 
taxi  was  doing  better  work  than  carrying  us 
and  as  we  walked,  we  talked  of  what  we 
had  seen. 

^^You  can  say  what  you  like,  fellows," 
says  one,  '^but  any  man  who  does  the  thing 
those  airmen  have  just  done  is  just  as  re- 
sponsible as  the  government  which  orders 
him  to  do  it.  The  people  know  of  the 
things  the  Kaiser  and  his  crew  do.  They 
are  intelligent;  at  least  they  used  to  adver- 
tise that  they  were.  Well  then,  if  they  stand 
for  the  stuff  their  men  pull  off,  they  are  no 
better  than  their  government,  and  I  for  one, 
won't  recognize  them  as  any  better." 

We  all  agreed,  for  there  is  no  argument. 
Finding  we  were  lost,  we  sat  on  a  door  step 
until  daylight,  so  we  could  see  where  we 

143 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


were.  We  sat  there  talking  and  smoking. 
I  shan't  tell  you  what  we  said;  you'd  say  we 
were  all  crazy.  That's  because  you  don't 
know  yet;  it  is  only  the  same  old  story,  any- 
way— Germany  and  her  rottenness,  of 
which  she  had  always  given  us  proof.  The 
proof  came  this  time  not  on  the  battlefield, 
where  war  is  supposed  to  be  fought,  how- 
ever, but  in  a  city;  a  city  full  of  men,  women 
and  children.  Still,  what's  the  use  talking? 
Fighting  is  the  thing. 

Daylight  found  us  looking  for  a  'bus  or 
taxi,  and  putting  the  night  behind  us  to  be 
kept  in  our  memory  for  future  use  in  the 
field. 

Of  that  day  I  shall  say  little.  It  was  our 
last  day  of  leave.  It  sped  fast,  and  so  did 
we.  And  the  next  morning  found  us  on  our 
way  back  to  Victoria  station  and  the 
trenches. 

What  a  place  is  that  station!  What 
stories  its  old  walls  could  tell  of  the  fare- 
wells there  daily,  in  the  breaking  dawn;  of 

144 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


the  last  longing  looks  as  loved  ones  part, 
slowly  and  lingeringly.  Part  they  must  and 
do,  however,  bravely,  silently. 

Early  morning,  'buses  and  taxis  start  dis- 
charging their  loads;  mothers,  wives,  sis- 
ters, sweethearts,  children,  all  clinging  to 
their  beloved.  Bravely  they  walk  across 
the  pavement  and  under  the  portals,  black- 
ened by  long  years  of  engine  smoke  so  that 
now  they  look  more  sinister  and  forbidding 
than  ever. 

Bravely  the  fellows  walk  toward  the  iron 
fencing  that  will  separate  them  from  their 
families  until — who  knows  when?  They 
reach  the  gates  and  stop  for  that  last  second, 
for  civilians  may  go  no  farther.  A  hug,  a 
kiss,  and  the  man  passes  through  the  gates 
— gone.  He  walks  backward  for  a  second, 
then  is  lost  in  the  khaki  crowd.  The  family 
is  left  behind  to  wait,  and  it  resolutely  turns 
about  and  walks  away.  There  is  no  cheer- 
ing; just  a  wave  of  the  hand  as  if  he  were 
going  to  the  seashore  for  awhile.    Heroics 

145 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


arc  not  indulged  in.  As  they  say,  ^^It's  not 
done  in  the  best  families,"  and  everybody, 
he  or  she.  East  Ender  or  West  Ender,  be- 
longs to  the  best  families  if  he  has  boys 
^Wer  there." 

That  is  what  we  saw,  we  colonials,  as  we 
came  down  to  go  back  too.  And  I  will  con- 
fess it  hurt  a  bit — with  no  one  to  say  good- 
bye to  us. 

But  we  climbed  aboard  and  away  we 
went,  out  of  Blighty  and  over  again.  ^  Wow 
for  what^s  to  come  and  never  heed." 


146 


VIII 

The  trip  back  from  Blighty  is  much  like 
the  trip  over,  except  that  the  boys  are  all 
clean  and  that  the  chatter  is  about  what  has 
been,  rather  than  what  will  be.  Every  one 
is  full  of  the  days  of  leisure;  of  rest  and 
sleep  and  the  best  shows  and  the  "newest 
bit  o'  skirt."  Enough  experience,  enough 
pleasure  have  been  accumulated  in  ten  days 
to  spread  through  all  the  coming  months 
until  that  next,  indefinite,  but  already  an- 
ticipated leave. 

We  were  probably  two  thousand  who 
tumbled  down  the  gangplank  and  were 
rounded  up  by  the  officers  in  command  of 
the  port  to  be  put  on  the  trains  bound  to- 
ward the  front.  Some  were  draft  men, 
never  out  before,  going  to  bring  up  to 
strength  some  of  the  old  battalions.  Many 
were  back  from  hospital  to  once  more  tempt 
fate  and  pray  for  a  "cushy  one."    There 

147 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


were  half  a  dozen  ''delinquents";  men  who 
had  overstayed  their  leave  and  were  being 
escorted  back  to  their  companies  to  make 
their  excuses  and  stand  for  field  punish- 
ment. Most  of  us,  however,  were  there  just 
in  time  to  get  under  the  leave  limit. 

Ten  days  I  had  been  gone.  Our  battalion 
had  been  in  the  line  and  now  was  out.  By 
the  time  I  reached  detail  camp  I  knew  it 
would  be  nearly  time  for  another  tour  in. 
I  left  railhead  and  caught  the  tail  end  of  a 
transport  wagon  for  a  lift  to  billets.  I  knew 
immediately  something  was  in  the  air.  The 
driver  had  heard  rumors  of  an  attack.  It 
might  be  ordered  any  hour. 

''Hell  of  a  time  for  you  to  be  gettin' 
back,"  he  said.  "Couldn't  yer  have  missed 
the  boat?" 

We  talked  of  the  prospect  of  a  "push." 
We  argued  strategy  and  tactics  and  the  pos- 
sibility of  breaking  through.  I  left  him 
near  the  village  and  ran  down  the  road  to 
where  I  expected  my  platoon  to  be  billeted. 
I  saw  Tommy  seated  on  a  broken  gate  and 

148 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


almost  threw  my  arms  around  him  I  was  so 
glad  to  be  back  "home." 

"Fine  time  for  you  to  be  gettin'  back," 
he  said,  but  he  almost  shook  my  hand  off. 
"Why  couldn't  one  of  them  gendarmes  up 
in  London  run  ye  in  for  a  few  days?" 

Then  he  told  me.  The  transport  man 
was  right.  An  attack  was  ordered  and  this 
was  Zero  Day.  The  day  of  all  days  had 
come. 

For  the  officers  Zero  Day  is  a  day  of 
preparation  from  dawn  to  dark.  They 
must  check  over  and  issue  to  the  men  all 
they  will  need  in  the  coming  attack.  They 
must  be  sure  that  the  ammunition  is  dis- 
tributed, that  rifles  and  bayonets,  bombs  and 
entrenching  tools  are  in  order,  that  first  aid 
packs  are  complete  and  water  bottles  and 
ration  bags  are  filled.  The  detail  to  be 
watched  reaches  to  every  man  in  the  bat- 
talion, for  one  partly  equipped  man,  in  the 
emergency,  might  mean  the  death  of  an  en- 
tire platoon. 

For  the  men,  too,  it  is  a  day  of  work. 

149 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Billets  must  be  cleaned.  Last  attention  must 
be  given  to  equipment.  There  are  letters 
to  write,  packets  of  keepsakes  to  be  made 
up  in  case  anything  happens,  and  there  is  as 
much  rest  as  possible  to  be  obtained  be- 
cause, once  out  of  billets,  rest  hours  are  over 
for  an  indefinite  period. 

As  each  company  is  ready  it  goes  down 
the  road  to  lie  and  wait  for  the  rest  of  the 
battalion.  The  colonel  is  there  at  the  ap- 
pointed meeting  place  as  we  come  along. 
We  halt,  and  he  walks  toward  us — one  of 
the  old  "contemptibles."  Our  company 
commander  calls  us  to  attention,  salutes, 
and  the  colonel  returns  it.  And  then,  in- 
stead of  a  long  harangue,  he  says  simply, 
'1  will  meet  you  at  our  objective.  Please 
be  there  on  time."  That's  all.  But  he 
meant  a  great  deal  more  for  he  knew,  and 
we  knew,  we  wouldn't  all  get  there.  Our 
objective,  perhaps,  would  be  the  third 
enemy  line.     But  why  prattle  about  it? 

To  each  company  as  it  came  up  he  went 

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OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


in  the  same  quiet,  confident  manner,  giving 
his  message  to  them.  His  few  words  did 
more  to  put  confidence  in  the  men  than  a 
long  line  of  " 'ot  air,"  as  the  company 
grouch  always  called  the  long  speeches  that 
are  sometimes  inflicted  on  us. 

'Tommy"  Atkins  knows  he  is  a  better 
man  than  the  Boche  and  he  doesn't  need 
to  be  told  it.  Furthermore,  he  doesn't  be- 
lieve in  world-wide  advertising  of  the  fact. 
He  knows  it  and  so  does  Fritz,  and  they  are 
the  two  most  interested  parties. 

The  adjutant  reports  to  the  colonel  "bat- 
talion present  and  correct,"  and  we  move 
off.  In  the  distance,  ahead  of  us,  preparing 
the  way  for  us  as  we  march,  we  hear  the 
steady  pounding  of  the  guns.  Any  one  look- 
ing for  signs  of  emotion  would  be  disap- 
pointed. If  a  man  feels  anything— nervous- 
ness, hesitation — and  everyone  almost  inva- 
riably does,  there  is  no  visible  evidence, 

A  man  who  goes  to  a  new  job  or  receives 
a  promotion  in  his  civilian  office  goes  to 
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OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


work  with  a  certain  amount  of  trepidation 
and  anxiety.  The  first  day  everything  is 
strange  and  the  responsibilities  are  new. 
Will  he  make  good?  That  is  the  question 
that  is  constantly  in  the  back  of  his  head  and 
it  may,  for  the  time,  spoil  the  joy  of  his  being 
there.  After  a  short  while,  he  makes  good, 
and  everything  runs  smoothly.  He  may 
enter  his  office  or  shop  in  the  morning  all 
out  of  sorts  with  the  monotony  of  the  thing, 
but  this  feeling  will  be  banished  in  a  little 
while  by  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  work 
well  done.  At  times  he  may  take  a  few 
minutes  to  let  his  thoughts  run  riot.  The 
unpleasant  ones  he  glides  over  but  the  pleas- 
ant ones  he  holds  fast  to,  lingering  with 
them. 

The  mind  of  that  man  is  the  mind  of  the 
soldiers  as  they  march  away.  They  have  a 
job  to  do.  The  attack  and  Zero  Day  are 
just  a  part  of  the  job.  Sometimes  they,  like 
the  civilian,  get  ^'fed  up"  and  growl,  but 
they  go  on  just  the  same.     The  civilian 

152 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


keeps  on  because  to  live  he  must  eat  and 
have  certain  comforts  which  he  cannot  ob- 
tain in  any  other  way.  'Tommy"  keeps  on 
because  he  wants,  he  and  his,  to  have  the 
right  to  live  as  they  see  fit  in  a  safe  and  sane 
way.  If  war  is  the  way  it  has  to  be  ob- 
tained, then  he  will  obtain  it  that  way.  So 
he  welcomes  rather  than  dreads  an  attack, 
since  it  brings  him  just  that  much  nearer  to 
his  goal. 

Clad  in  fighting  kit  we  swing  along  out 
of  the  village  to  the  tune  of  ^'Everybody's 
Doing  It"  from  the  band.  All  the  old 
French  people  come  to  wave  us  ''good-bye." 
One  old  woman  inquires  of  Tommy, 
"Poosh?"  and  he  replies  in  excellent 
French,  "Oui,  Madame,  AUemand  Rhine 
toot  sweet,"  which  pleases  her  greatly.  She 
hobbles  off  to  tell  the  rest  that  the  German 
swine  will  be  shoved  over  the  Rhine  imme- 
diately, and  the  whole  village  cheers  with 
feeble,  quavering  voices.  We  answer  with 
a  roar  which  leaves  them  all  in  such  great 

153 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


good  humor  that  they  go  back  and  feed  the 
chickens  a  little  extra  grain  and  the  pigs 
an  extra  turnip.  The  chickens  cackle 
louder,  the  pigs  grunt  with  pleasure,  the 
old  people  talk  about  Allemand  and  the 
Rhine,  and  we  go  on  our  way  singing.  So 
everybody  is  happy. 

Our  billet  was  seven  or  eight  miles  back 
of  the  lines  and  away  from  the  main  high- 
ways of  war.  As  we  march  along,  it  may 
as  well  have  been  England,  or  the  States,  or 
Canada.  Soon,  however,  we  pass  an  occa- 
sional idling  transport  wagon,  two  sleepy 
beasts  and  a  sleepier  driver,  who  wishes  us 
luck.  He  knows  where  we  are  going. 
Fighting  kit  is  worn  for  only  one  purpose. 

Now  we  pass  a  ''tank  camp,"  but  most  of 
the  monsters  are  gone.  Already  they  are 
in  their  positions  waiting  for  us.  They 
won't  have  much  longer  to  wait. 

We  halt  for  rest  near  an  old  artillery 
stable.  There  are  only  one  or  two  old 
horses  there  now — old  crocks — with  three 

154 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


or  four  men.  The  rest  have  gone  forward 
to  the  line,  waiting  for  us,  too.  When  wc 
have  done  our  work  they  will  bring  their 
guns  still  further  forward. 

As  we  move  along,  the  rumble  of  the 
guns  increases.  Soon  we  enter  another  vil- 
lage, full  of  other  ^'Tommies"  and  the  vari- 
ous men  who  work  behind  the  lines.  The 
band  starts  again,  heads  are  up,  every  man 
throws  out  his  chest  and  with  a  smile  we 
swing  through  the  village,  every  one  in  step. 
It  is  plain  "swank,"  but  right  well  we  do 
it.  Other  infantry  wish  us  well,  we  shout 
'^good  luck,"  and  we  pass  out  into  the  main 
road  to  battle. 

From  now  on  there  are  wagons  and  more 
wagons,  trucks  and  more  trucks,  all  headed 
the  one  way.  Ammunition  limbers  by  the 
score  go  by,  for  the  guns  are  fairly  eating 
up  their  food.  They  are  driven  by  cocky 
youngsters.  Though  they  are  barely  able 
to  sit  in  their  saddles  from  lack  of  sleep, 
they  go  on,  and  on,  for  we  can  do  nothing 

155 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


without  them.  We  know  it  and  they  know 
it.  So  they  go  on,  if  necessary,  until  horses 
and  men  drop  with  exhaustion. 

Staff  cars  go  swirling  by,  skipping  in  and 
out  between  the  slower  and  more  cumber- 
some vehicles,  the  officers  inside  serious 
faced  and  frowning  as  though  the  whole 
thing  rested  on  their  shoulders. 

''All  this  fuss  over  us,"  said  Tommy. 
''Can  you  beat  it?" 

"Better  funeral  than  you'd  get  in  civil 
life,"  answers  the  grouch,  which  merely 
goes  to  show  how  pessimistic  and  disagree- 
able some  people  can  be. 

Out  of  all  this  confusion  our  colonel  leads 
us  into  a  quiet  field  to  halt  for  a  lunch  and 
rest.  The  jam  on  the  road  continues, 
though.  There  could  be  no  halt  there.  It 
is  like  a  play  with  all  those  people  as 
"supers,"  rushing  on  and  off,  making  ready 
for  the  grand  entrance  on  that  battle  stage 
of  the  leading  characters — the  infantry — 
us!    And  we  sit  in  "the  wings"  eating  our 

156 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


bite  and  criticising  the  ''supers,"  as  I  be- 
lieve all  great  actors  do  sometimes. 

As  soon  as  we  finish  eating  most  of  us 
sleep,  for  who  knows  when  we  will  have 
another  chance?  Some  do  not  sleep  but  lay 
and  talk  of  what  is  to  come  and  the  chances 
of  getting  through  to  the  objective.  Bets 
are  made  on  whether  the  enemy  wire  will 
be  down  or  whether  we  will  get  held  up  by 
machine  gun  fire;  that  the  tanks  will  or  will 
not  get  stuck,  but  never  a  word  as  to  whether 
any  of  us  will  come  back.  Everybody 
feels  it;  everybody  fully  appreciates  the  pos- 
sibilities, but  nobody  speaks  of  it.  I  think 
you  will  find  that  troops  moving  up  to  at- 
tack are  worried  more  by  the  knowledge 
of  the  sorrow  their  death  would  cause  at 
home  than  by  the  thought  of  death  itself. 

Our  officers  are  sitting  round  in  a  circle 
talking  among  themselves.  So  we  place 
odds  on  them,  too;  coming  back,  to  win; 
wounded,  for  place;  and  knocked  out,  for 
show. 

157 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Don't  think  ^'Tommy"  is  a  hardened,  cal- 
loused sort  of  chap.  He  isn't.  He  is  just 
an  Anglo-Saxon  and  a  sportsman.  It  is 
the  same  instinct  that  makes  him  put  up 
always  a  good  square  fight,  so  entirely  dif- 
ferent from  the  habits  of  Fritz. 

"Fall  in"  comes  over  the  field.  We  put 
on  our  equipment,  not  to  take  it  off  again 
until  we  come  out.  We  dive  into  the  maze 
of  traffic  moving  forward  and  move  with 
it.  We  are  getting  well  toward  the  front 
now  and  meet  or  pass  other  troops,  also  in 
fighting  kit  and  bent  on  the  same  errand. 
We  cheer  them  and  they  cheer  us. 

How  nice  and  green  the  grass  looks! 
How  blue  the  sky!  Every  little  bit  of  the 
landscape  seems  to  stand  out  in  brilliant 
hues  impressing  us  more  than  ever  with  the 
real  beauty  of  the  world.  The  village  ahead 
that  we  are  coming  to,  how  peaceful  it 
looks,  but  even  as  we  look  it  belches  forth 
flame  and  smoke  and  more  9.2  shells  go 
hurtling  to  the  enemy  lines. 

158 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


"Hope  them  things  hit  the  blinkin' 
Kaiser,"  growls  Tommy. 

"Most  sensible  thing  you  ever  said,"  an- 
swers the  grouch,  and  every  one  shouts 
"  'Ear,  'ear,  matey." 

On  our  left  is  a  big,  square  compound 
enclosed  with  barbed  wire  to  a  height  of 
about  eight  feet  and  topped  by  sentry  boxes. 
It  is  the  prisoners'  cage.  At  the  same  time 
to-morrow,  it  will  be  full  of  Boches.  As 
we  pass  it  we  enter  the  shell  zone.  We 
know,  because  the  prisoner  cages  are  always 
just  on  the  edge  of  the  enemy's  extreme 
range.  From  now  on,  we  are  "in  it,"  and 
before  we  know  it  we  are  at  the  center  of 
what  seemed  such  a  peaceful  little  village. 

Now  it  fairly  teems  with  activity. 
Troops  are  everywhere;  trench  mortar  bat- 
teries, machine  gun  companies,  engineers, 
field  dressing  stations,  pioneers  and  artil- 
lerymen; horses  and  trucks — big  and  little 
— automobiles  and  wagons — water  wagons, 
feed  wagons,  every  kind  of  wagon — piles  of 

159 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


ammunition  in  all  shapes  and  sizes,  tim- 
bers, barbed  wire  drums  and  wire  stakes. 
Over  it  all  the  big  howitzers  fire  continually 
with  a  crash  that  is  almost  stunning,  and 
through  it  all  we  march  on,  out  and  beyond, 
leaving  it  all  behind,  for  these  things  in  the 
village  cannot  move  until  after  dark. 

One  thing  we  don't  leave  behind.  In- 
stead, the  further  we  go  the  thicker  the 
guns,  until  their  flash  and  bang  are  almost 
continuous.  There  is  no  wind,  yet  the  air 
is  full  of  strange,  weird  sounds — shells 
coming  and  going. 

We  come  to  the  last  village  we  will  pass 
through — at  least  it  once  was  a  village. 
Now  you  could  not  tell  the  mayor's  house 
from  the  poorest  laborer's,  except,  perhaps, 
from  the  size  of  the  pile  of  bricks. 

Near  convenient  holes  loiter  a  few  sol- 
diers, ready  to  dive  into  shelter  the  minute 
an  unfriendly  shell  comes  racing  along  in 
search  of  them.  From  some  of  the  cellars 
comes  the  sharp,  vicious  crack  of  the  long, 

160 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


lean  4.7s.  Now  and  then,  as  our  fire  seems 
to  slacken  a  bit,  we  hear  the  whine  of  a 
Boche  shell  overhead,  going  well  back. 
They  are  firing  on  chance,  for  none  of  their 
'planes  are  in  the  air  and  none  of  their  sau- 
sage balloons.  We  have  taken  control  of 
the  air  and  not  an  enemy  can  live  in  it. 

Marching  in  half  platoons  we  leave  the 
village  and  come  out  into  the  open  field. 
About  half  a  mile  in  front  of  us  we  can  see 
the  entrance  to  our  communication  trench 
winding  up  the  side  of  a  gradually  sloping 
hill,  until  it  reaches  the  crest  where  our 
front  line  rests.  In  the  morning,  with  the 
first  streak  of  dawn,  we  will  go  down  the 
other  side  of  that  hill  to  meet  the  enemy. 

All  over  the  flat  land  and  the  hill  are  lit- 
tle humps,  reminding  me  of  the  ant  heaps 
at  home.  These  little  humps  hide  a  worse 
sting  than  any  ant,  though.  They  are  gun 
emplacements.  We  see  little  tongues  of 
flame  flash  out  with  potential  death  for 
tw^enty  men  in  every  tongue. 

161 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


As  a  guide  to  the  shortest  way  across  we 
have  the  signs  put  up  by  the  medical  men. 
^Walking  Wounded"  they  say,  and  a  black 
hand  with  a  forefinger  outstretched  points 
the  way  to  where  a  dressing  station  will  be 
found.  The  hand  points  back  now  for  us, 
but  it  serves  our  purpose  every  bit  as  well. 

How  many  of  us  will  be  looking  for  those 
signs  to-morrow?  We  wonder,  and  plod 
along. 

The  air  by  this  time  smells  strongly  of 
powder,  for  the  Germans  are  not  taking 
their  punishment  quietly.  We  are  fortunate, 
though,  and  get  into  the  C.  T.  with  no  dam- 
age done.  We  enter  the  trench  single  file 
just  as  it  gets  dusk  and  we  stumble  along  in 
silence. 

It  has  been  a  long  day  and  we  have  not 
yet  started  on  our  real  job.  We  are  anxious 
to  get  to  our  assembly  trenches  so  we  can 
rest.  So  we  grope  our  way  through  what 
seems  leagues  of  trenches  until  finally  we 
turn  off  to  our  right  and  halt.    Our  officer 

162 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


comes  down  the  line,  squeezing  by  with  dif- 
ficulty, for  it  is  a  very  narrow  trench. 

^^Sit  down,  fellows;  rest  as  well  as  pos- 
sible. Smoke  if  you  like,  but  be  very  care- 
ful of  lights.  We  are  in  our  assembly  posi- 
tion. I'm  going  now  to  see  if  I  can  make 
arrangements  to  get  us  all  something  warm 
to  drink." 

Those  were  his  instructions  as  he  left  us. 
He  never  returned.  A  shell  got  him  while 
he  was  looking  for  a  dugout  into  which  we 
could  go  by  turns  and  cook  something  hot 
before  we  went  over.  Word  came  to  us  of 
this,  but  before  we  had  time  to  give  more 
than  a  second  thought  to  his  loss  our  ser- 
geant, on  orders,  began  to  move  us  into  our 
final  position  in  No  Man's  Land.  There 
we  lay  until  day  should  break  so  that  we 
could  move  into  enemy  territory  and  fill  up 
our  prisoners'  cage. 

You  may  wonder  what  a  man  thinks, 
out  in  the  mud  and  within  yards  of  the 
enemy  with  no  protection  but  the  sky.    So 

163 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


far  as  I  can  tell,  there  are  no  thoughts.  On 
that  night,  every  man  snatched  what  sleep 
he  could.  If  there  were  those  whose  sleep 
was  fitful,  their  thoughts,  I  wager,  were  too 
confused  for  understanding.  To  these  latter 
dawn  came  with  the  air  full  of  a  strange, 
rushing,  whiny  sort  of  roar  beggaring  de- 
scription, to  end  in  a  bursting  crash  and  a 
wall  of  flame  in  front  of  their  very  eyes. 
The  sleepers  woke  in  the  din,  saw  that  wall 
of  flame  and  mechanically  reached  for  their 
bayonets  to  fix  them  on  their  rifles. 

The  time  had  come.  Our  barrage  was 
down.  We  had  passed  from  Zero  Day  to 
Zero  Hour. 


101 


IX 


Tommy  and  I  had  been  asleep  about  sixty 
yards  from  the  Boche  line,  not  because  wc 
were  especially  brave  or  underrated  the 
cornered  German,  but  we  were  tired — oh, 
so  tired!    So  we  had  slept. 

Wakened  by  the  crash  and  din  of  Zero 
Hour  we  leaped  to  our  feet,  reached  for  our 
bayonets,  and  clicked  them  on  our  rifles. 

Tommy  pulled  me  to  him  and  shouted: 
"Like  a  house  afire,  ain't  it?  God!"  And 
as  he  drew  away  to  find  his  place  in  the 
line,  he  shuddered.  So  did  I.  It  was  ap- 
palling, wonderful,  magnificent,  awesome! 
What  is  the  use?  No  words  will  ever  de- 
scribe that  living  wall  of  flame  as  it  split 
the  earth  in  front  of  us.    It  was  Zero  Hour! 

Even  as  we  stood  and  watched,  the  smoke 
seemed  to  settle  lower  and  lower  over  the 
earth  so  we  could  but  dimly  see  the  Ger- 
man S.  O.  S.  signals  as  they  went  flying 

165 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


into  the  air  in  frantic  haste.  One  of  the 
fellows  laughed,  a  crazy  sort  of  laugh,  and 
pointed  to  them.     ^'Look  at  'em.     Look  at 

'em.      The   know   what's 

comin'." 

As  we  looked  at  their  S.  O.  S.'s  the  whole 
wall  seemed  to  step  forward  as  though  pos- 
sessed of  seven  league  boots.  It  was  our 
turn  now.  That  was  our  signal  to  occupy 
the  German  front  line.  We  were  the  first 
wave,  so  we  occupied  it.  There  was  no 
fighting.  There  was  no  one  to  fight,  but 
the  enemy  was  far  from  being  through. 

Their  shells  and  machine  guns  were 
working  overtime,  but  not  on  us.  They 
were  firing  on  our  reserves  and  the  tragedy 
was  occurring  behind  us,  but  we  knew  noth- 
ing of  it.  You  would  be  astonished  at  the 
little  a  man  knows  of  what  is  happening 
on  either  side  of  him,  in  front  or  behind. 
Men  may  be  knocked  out  six  feet  away  to 
the  right  or  left,  but  it  is  ten  to  one  you 
never  see  it. 

166 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


The  front  line  was  no  line  at  all.  Our 
artillery  had  changed  it  from  a  ditch  to  a 
canal,  so  we  crept  to  its  far  edge  and  waited 
— waited  for  our  barrage  to  move  on  so  we 
could  get  into  their  second  line.  We  were 
choked  with  the  fumes  of  the  powder,  and 
the  flames  from  the  exploding  shells  seemed 
to  scorch  us.  The  fellow  next  to  me  took 
off  his  helmet  to  wipe  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead.  German  H.  E.  shrap- 
nel cracked  overhead;  the  man's  helmet 
dropped  from  a  nerveless  hand  and  he 
seemed  to  let  his  head  fall  forward  as 
though  exhausted.    He  was  "out!" 

Tommy  crawled  to  my  side,  and  shouted 
in  my  ear.  "Damn  fool!"  and  he  pointed 
to  the  fellow, 

I  resolved  to  keep  my  helmet  on  my  head. 

There  were  no  tangible  thoughts  in  my 
mind  at  the  time.  I  could  never  get  over 
that  wall  of  exploding  fire.  It  fascinated 
and  repelled.  It  was  like  the  hypnotizing 
power  of  a  snake  and  as  I  watched,  speech- 

167 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


less,  it  took  that  step  forward  again.  That 
was  the  thing  that  made  mc  marvel;  not 
there,  perhaps,  but  after;  that  wonderful, 
scientific  accuracy  which  would  take  a  wall 
of  crashing  shells  and  even  as  you  looked, 
pick  it  bodily  from  blank  yards  in  front  of 
you  and  move  it  forward  blank  yards  more 
without  losing  so  much  as  one  flash. 

As  the  barrage  lifted  w^e  moved  up  with 
it.  We  were  not  a  wildly  cheering  mass 
of  bloodthirsty  soldiers,  but  a  silent,  cool, 
calculating  lot,  evenly  spaced  apart,  rifle  at 
the  port.    We  walked  toward  the  enemy! 

It  is  easy  to  say  walk,  but  it  was  hardly 
that.  It  is  rather  jerky  progress  over 
ground  that  has  been  churned  again  and 
again,  burying,  throwing  out  and  burying 
again  some  of  the  terrible  secrets  it  holds, 
until  places  that  are  not  shell  holes  are  great 
masses  of  spongy,  soft,  muggy  earth  which 
tries  to  suck  you  down  and  strangle  you  as 
you  pass  over.  But  up  and  down,  up  and 
down  we  go,  always  just  behind  our  bar- 
rage. 

168 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


As  we  went  forward  into  their  second 
line,  I  missed  Tommy.  His  cheery  little 
face  was  gone.  I  couldn't  stop  to  look  for 
him;  that  was  absolutely  against  orders.  So 
on  I  went,  thinking  about  him,  and  getting 
madder  and  madder  every  second.  He  had 
been  knocked  out,  I  supposed,  as  it  was  the 
only  thing  that  would  take  him  very  far 
away  from  my  side. 

The  dirty  swine  had  killed  him!  So  I 
began  to  see  red.  I  wanted  to  go  look  for 
him,  but  I  couldn't!  It  was  this  thought 
that  obsessed  me  as  we  jumped  into  their 
second  line,  and  from  there  on  I  remember 
very  little.  Things  were  vague  and  unreal. 
Some  incidents  were  impressed  on  my  mind 
for  the  moment,  but  as  I  look  back  on  it 
now,  it  all  seems  impersonal. 

The  person  who  doesn't  drink  may  not 
understand  the  simile,  but  when  a  man  is  on 
a  drinking  bout  he  will  remember  every- 
thing up  to  a  certain  point.  From  then  on 
everything  is  a  blur.  The  next  morning 
the  boys  at  the  office  will  tell  him  of  some 

169 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


weird  thing  he  may  have  done  the  night 
before  and  he  may  have  a  hazy  recollection 
that  something  of  the  kind  did  happen,  but 
he  never  can  be  sure. 

So  it  is  with  the  soldier  in  an  attack.  He 
goes  along  for  a  certain  length  of  time  with 
a  clear  mind  on  which  is  registered  vivid 
impressions.  Then  the  impressions  grow 
dimmer  and  dimmer  until  there  is  no  sur- 
face left  on  which  they  can  place  them- 
selves. 

In  the  second  line  we  had  fighting,  fairly 
stiff  for  a  moment.  There  were  grunts  and 
groans,  then  silence,  except  for  the  never 
ending  crash  of  the  cursed  barrage.  Pant- 
ing for  breath,  we  stood  in  the  trench  wait- 
ing for  the  time  to  come  when  we  could 
move  on  again.  Selected  parties  were 
scurrying  here  and  there  looking  for  the 
entrances  to  the  Boche  dugouts.  Some 
prisoners  were  standing  near  by  waiting  for 
an  escort  to  take  them  down  the  line. 
Others  came  tumbling  out  of  their  dugouts 

170 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


about  one  pace  ahead  of  a  sharp  pointed 
British  bayonet. 

What  a  confusion  there  was! 

One  man  was  sitting  in  the  muck  giving 
a  first  aid  treatment  to  his  leg  and  shouting 
at  the  same  time:  "Bring  some  of  them 

Boches  here  to  carry  me 

down." 

Another  fellow  was  ill,  violently  ill  from 
the  powder  fumes.  The  odors  were  fear- 
ful. 

As  I  waited,  half  stupefied,  the  fellow 
next  me  lurched  forward  onto  the  ground, 
a  piece  of  something  in  his  neck.  Whatever 
it  was,  it  had  sailed  right  under  his  helmet 
and  gone  through  his  neck.  I  wondered 
who  he  was.  It  struck  me  what  a  useless 
thing  a  helmet  could  be.  I  wanted  to  take 
mine  off  and  throw  it  away.  It  was  heavy, 
and  hot.  Then  I  thought  of  the  fellow 
who  had  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  head. 
No,  I  wouldn't  throw  it  away.  But  I  must 
do  something.     I  couldn't  stand  inactive. 

171 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Why  the  hell  didn't  the  barrage  move  on 
and  let  us  get  out  of  the  stinking  place? 

I  looked  at  the  chap  who  had  got  it  in  the 
neck — lucky  devil — lying  there  so  quiet 
and  peaceful — done,  finished  with  it  all.  I 
wanted  to  turn  him  over  to  see  who  he  w^as. 
No,  I  wouldn't  do  that. 

Just  then  someone  shouted  in  my  ear.  I 
shouted  in  answxr,  but  I  have  no  idea  what 
I  said.  Someone  offered  me  a  cigarette; 
I  remember  that.  I  lit  it,  wondering  if  my 
hand  would  shake.  It  didn't,  and  I  remem- 
ber how  pleased  I  was  over  it.  Outwardly, 
then,  I  was  calm.  But  on  the  inside  every 
nerve  in  me  cried  for  action.  This  stand- 
ing, waiting — it  was  torture. 

The  prisoners  moved  off  to  the  rear. 
Another  hour,  and  for  them  the  w^ar  would 
be  over.  While  lighting  another  cigarette, 
something  cracked  me  on  the  back. 

^^Got  one  at  last,"  flashed  through  my 
mind.  I  wondered  why  I  didn't  fall  over, 
when  in  front  of  me  bounced  Tommy.     I 

172 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


fell  on  his  neck  and  we  had  another  cigar- 
ette. He  yelled  in  my  ear :  ^The  concussion 
of  a  blinkin'  Boche  shell  blew  me  about  ten 
feet.  Couldn't  find  you  again  until  day- 
light." 

Sure  enough  it  w^as  daylight.  I  had 
never  noticed  the  change.  My  mind  had 
been  on  other  things  than  day  and  night. 
I  had  realized  I  could  see  easier  than  be- 
fore, but  I  hadn't  put  it  down  to  daylight. 

The  barrage  slackened  for  a  few  seconds, 
then  increased  its  intensity  again.  It  was 
the  signal  to  get  ready  for  a  forward  move. 
So  we  gave  our  equipment  a  hitch  and  pre- 
pared for  the  last  spasm  by  creeping  a  little 
closer  to  the  barrage.  It  was  movement  we 
wanted  to  relieve  the  strain  of  standing 
still.  Three  lines  were  all  we  had  to  take 
and  take  them  we  did. 

The  barrage  performed  its  miracle  of 
stepping  forward  and  we  were  into  their 
trench  before  the  Boches  had  time  to  think. 

The  third  line  was  in  fairly  good  condi- 

173 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


tion  with  dugouts  a-plenty  and  full  of 
Fritzies.  It  was  a  complicated  process  to 
chase  them  out,  but  it  always  pleases  the 
British  Tommies  when  they  get  a  chance  at 
the  job.  Dashing  along  the  trench,  we  post 
a  man  at  each  entrance  to  the  underground 
shelters,  then  down  into  one  of  the  end  ones 
some  one  shouts  in  the  best  German  pos- 
sible, ^'Raus  mit  you!" 

Occasionally  a  rifle  shot  is  the  answer, 
but  generally  it  is  lurid,  if  unintelligible, 
language  which  we  interpret  as  consigning 
us  to  the  deepest  and  hottest  corner  of  a  cer- 
tain mythical  spot.  At  the  same  time  we 
trace  indecent  allusions  to  the  memory  of 
our  ancestors. 

Our  reply  is  emphatic  and  usually  takes 
the  form  of  a  bomb,  or  if  necessary,  bombs, 
loosed  down  the  stairways.  Wild  groans 
and  squeals  reach  our  ears,  or  the  echo  of 
clattering  feet  down  a  corridor.  If  the  lat- 
ter, the  boys  get  down  the  stairs  in  time  to 
hurry  the  stampede  by  the  use  of  one  or 
two  more  bombs.    This  always  causes  Fritz 

174 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


to  seek  the  first  exit  to  open  air.  At  the 
top,  he  meets  another  Tommy  who  is  wait- 
ing for  him.  Fritz's  hands  shoot  into  the 
air  and  at  the  same  instant  he  yells  "Kame- 
rad." 

The  boys  search  him  for  bombs  or  other 
weapons,  using  his  body  as  a  blockade  to 
the  exit,  much  to  the  annoyance  and  dis- 
gust of  the  other  little  Boches  who  are  fran- 
tically clamoring  to  get  out.    It's  no  telling 
what  these  mad  British  will  do,  so  they 
shout,  swear,  groan   and  weep  while  the 
merry  business  goes  on. 
^  Trenches  cleared  of  prisoners,  consolida- 
tion   starts.      Parapets    are    reversed,    the 
Lewis  and  machine  guns  take  up  positions, 
trench  mortars,  light  and  heavy,  arrive  at 
the  same  time  with  engineers  and  signal 
men;  carrying  parties  bring  up  ammunition, 
water,  supplies,  etc.    Ambulance  men  fix  up 
the  wounded  in  the  trench,  and  the  same  old 
barrage  is  still  resting  in  front  of  us  as  a 
protection. 

The  Germans  shell  us— not  very  accu- 

175 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


rately,  perhaps — but  we  don't  heed  a  thing 
like  that  now',  as  we  are  busy  working  and 
our  minds  are  occupied.  In  the  air  as  on 
the  ground  is  the  continuous  rat-a-tat  of 
machine  guns.  The  enemy's  aviators  are 
trying  to  find  us ;  our  fellows  won't  let  them. 
So  there  is  much  and  brilliant  fighting  high 
,  over  the  bloody  field. 

The  signalers  string  their  wires,  a  dug- 
out is  selected  as  headquarters,  and  around 
the  corner  comes  our  colonel,  all  smiles  and 
happiness. 

''Good  work,  boys!" 

That  is  all,  but  his  voice  quivers.  He  has 
seen  what  we  have  left  behind  us.  Scat- 
tered here  and  there  over  the  earth  for  half 
a  mile,  in  all  shapes  and  positions,  lay  the 
price  we  have  paid  for  our  three  lines  of 
trenches. 

The  Germans  are  fairly  quiet.  They  are 
"up  in  the  air"  and  are  bothering  us  but 
little. 

I  miss  Tommy,  but  even  as  I  miss  him 

176 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


he  shows  up,  dragging  a  sandbag  full  of 
junk  after  him.  He  has  been  souvenir 
hunting!  He  drops  his  bag  and  we  shake 
hands  silently. 

''Many  gone?"  I  ask. 

''Dunno.  Been  searching  the  dugouts  for 
these  tin  hats.  Got  a  peach  here,  too.  All 
sorts  of  ornaments  on  it.  Show  you  when 
we  get  out." 

'When  do  we  go  out?" 

^'Dunno." 

We  eat,  save  the  word,  our  macconachie 
ration,  which  is  something  no  man  has 
been  able  to  analyze.  It  is  the  dietary 
X  put  into  a  tin  can  and  sealed  up.  As 
we  eat,  troops  come  pouring  into  our  trench 
over  the  rear  wall. 

"We're  your  relief.  Good  work  you  did 
to-day." 

We  didn't  believe  them  when  they  men- 
tioned relief,  but  our  corporal,  who  by  now 
was  in  command  of  our  platoon,  came 
along,  collected  us  and  away  we  went,  over 

177 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


the  top,  but  backward  towards  billets,  a 
bath,  ^^eats,"  and  rest.  As  we  went  in  the 
gathering  dusk,  the  ambulance  men  were 
coming  forward  with  the  stretchers  to 
search  for  the  wounded. 

As  the  Germans  fight,  it  is  not  possible 
to  go  out  in  the  daylight  to  look  for  your 
wounded.  If  you  do,  and  they  see  you, 
machine  guns  will  blaze  and  shells  will 
come  your  way  in  distressing  numbers.  The 
presence  of  the  Red  Cross  will  not  save  you. 
Their  theory  is  that  if  a  wounded  man  must 
lay  in  the  mud  all  day,  infection  will  be 
pretty  sure  to  attack  the  wound  and  the 
man  will  lose  life,  a  limb  or  be  held  in 
hospital  longer  than  would  have  been  neces- 
sary in  ordinary  circumstances. 

That  is  why,  as  we  go  back,  we  meet  the 
stretcher  bearers  on  their  rounds.  We  pass 
by  silently.  We  know  now  who  of  our  pla- 
toon has  paid  the  price.  We  are  sorry. 
They  were  good  boys,  good  pals,  good  sol- 
diers.    But  with  our  sorrow  is  a  tinge  of 

178 


©  y.  r.  E.  Co. 

Red  Ckoss  Stretchek-beaeees  at  Work 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


gladness,  for  we  know  that  some  of  those 
who  have  "gone  west"  are  happy  at  last, 
and  that  we  have  done  a  good  day's  work 
toward  helping  to  bring  the  end  of  the  war 
so  much  the  nearer. 


179 


X 


A  RAT  is  a  rat,  and  in  France  and  Bel- 
gium it  is  a  four-legged  animal  varying  in 
size  from  a  squirrel  to  a  fox  terrier,  de- 
pending on  the  bloodiness  of  the  part  of 
the  line  in  which  he  is  born  and  raised. 

In  British  army  slang  there  is  also 
another  rat.  It  weighs  more  than  a  hun- 
dred pounds,  is  four  or  five  feet  long  and 
black  in  color,  with  a  waist  line  of  about 
eighteen  inches.  Some  rat!  you  will  say. 
It  surely  is  some  rat!  Its  killing  power — • 
just  one  rat — may  be  anywhere  from  fifty 
to  five  hundred  men  in  the  same  number  of 
seconds. 

The  rat  is  a  cylindrical  container  which 
holds  gas — that  foul,  stinking,  strangula- 
ting form  of  gas  that  the  Prussians  gave  to 
an  astonished  world  on  April  22,  '15,  at 
Ypres. 

It  is  ghastly  and  hellish,  this  gas,  a  con- 

180 


(C)  N.  T.  n.  Go. 


Theik  Fikst  Expebience  of  Gas 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


trivance  of  men  the  devil  would  be  ashamed 
to  accept  in  his  dominions,  and  yet,  in  de- 
fense, we  have  had  to  use  it. 

We  were  at a  few  days  after  the 

*^show,"   to  be  exact,  just  behind  , 

having  a  rest  (according  to  a  divisional 
order).  Our  ^'rest"  consisted  in  carrying 
rats  from  a  spot  along  a  peaceful  highway 

known  as  road,  to  certain  parts  of 

the  front  line.  It  sounds  very  simple,  I 
know,  but  it  generally  took  from  seven  or 
eight  o'clock  one  evening  to  about  the  same 
time  next  morning. 

Seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  found  us 
crowded  in  a  motor  lorrie  bound  for  work, 
minus  the  lunch  pails.  We  ran  up  in  these 
lorries  to  well  within  shell  range;  then 
each  officer,  with  his  men,  went  on  foot  to 
the  dump. 

The  dump  is  the  place  closest  to  the  fir- 
ing line  that  supplies  may  be  brought  to 
for  the  troops  holding  the  line,  and  it  may 
be  anywhere  from  five  hundred  yards  to 

181 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


two  thousand  yards  behind  the  line,  de- 
pending on  the  lay  of  the  land. 

It  was  a  case  of  first  to  the  dump,  first 
served,  each  party  being  handed  a  certain 
number  of  rats  which  they  must  deliver  to 
a  certain  spot.  As  there  were  a  great  many 
parties,  it  used  to  be  a  hard  race;  the  re- 
ward, billets  earlier. 

The  dump  we  raced  for  was  about  a  mile 
from  where  we  left  the  lorries,  through 
the  usual  ghost-ridden  ruins  of  a  village, 
stark  naked  walls  standing  in  grotesque 
shadows  and  shapes,  with  here  and  there  a 
shaft  of  yellow  light  peering  through  and 
dancing  and  flickering  on  another  wall  as 
though  pleased  that  even  a  soldier  of  any 
description  would  use  the  battered  hulks. 

Into  one  of  these  cellars  we  could  go 
and  then  into  a  communication  trench  and 
on  to  the  dump,  winding,  twisting,  slipping, 
falling,  cursing  as  we  went.  This  was  the 
slow  way;  on  top  was  the  quick  way,  along 
the road  which  the  dump  was  near. 

182 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


True,  we  might  get  shelled,  but  "what  the 
Hell?"  Wasn't  it  quicker  and  easier?  It 
was  against  orders,  too,  but  then  we  could 
get  there  so  much  faster.  Maybe  we  had 
to  flop  when  a  machine  gun  went  into  ac- 
tion, and  flop  we  did,  not  bothering  about 
position,  place  or  gracefulness.  Just  a 
plain,  simple  flop. 

Sometimes  a  stray  bullet  whirred  over 
head,  but  we  never  ducked.  You  never 
hear  the  bullet  that  gets  you,  so  why  worry? 

So  every  night  we  raced  for  this  dump. 
Our  officer  always  left  it  to  his  men  whether 
we  took  the  top  or  the  trench.  Almost 
needless  to  say,  we  took  the  top  road  every 
night,  sometimes  getting  there  first,  some- 
times not.  We  used  four  men  to  a  rat — 
two  for  carrying  and  two  for  relief — loaded 
up  quickly  and  went  into  the  trench,  for 
we  had  to  go  into  it  the  rest  of  the  way. 
We  couldn't  take  too  many  chances  with 
that  stuff. 

So  we  would  start  on  the  long  leg  of  our 

183 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


journey,  about  twelve  hundred  yards 
through  the  very  flat  country  around  this 
district.  Thus  on  the  long  journey,  sweat- 
ing, struggling  with  our  rats,  we  would 
stagger  along  until  out  of  breath,  and  then 
squat  in  the  bottom  of  the  trench  with 
the  eternal  fag  going,  as  well  as  a  continu- 
ous stream  of  profane  and  lurid  discussion 
of  the  day's  doings  or  of  some  N.  C.  O. 
who  had  caused  displeasure.  Then  up  and 
on  again,  ever  on  toward  the  flares. 

Soon  we  would  come  to  the  support  lines, 
with  the  usual  drowsy  sentry  and  the  smell 
of  cooking  in  the  air,  with  every  now  and 
then  a  snore — for  the  support  line  takes 
things  easy  while  they  may,  never  knowing 
when  their  pals  in  the  front  line  may  need 
them.  Again  we  halt  and  hear  the  day's 
news  of  the  line;  of  the  tall,  lanky  officer 
who  came  on  a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  forgot 
where  he  was,  didn't  stoop,  and  got  it  right 
through  the  ear.  ^^Yes,  had  a  Hell  of  a 
time  getting  him  down  to  bury  him.    Was 

184 


OVER  THERE  AND^BACK 


SO  long,  you  know.  Couldn't  get  him 
around  the  corners  on  a  stretcher;  had  to 
put  him  in  a  blanket  and  drag  him  down. 
Don't  know  what  the  devil  they  want  to 
grow  so  long  for." 

And  so  it  goes.  You  hear  there  wasn't 
much  shell  fire  to-day.  "They  were  feeling 
for  some  of  our  eighteen  pounders  back  by 
the  railroad  with  their  heavy  stuff.  Didn't 
bother  supports,  though.  Dropped  some 
^Minnies'  in  the  front  line.  Got  four  of  our 
men  working  up  there.  Didn't  need  to 
bring  them  down.  Nothing  left  but  scraps. 
Put  'em  in  a  sandbag  and  filled  up  a  shell 
hole." 

So,  for  the  news  of  the  day  in  the  line 
we  tell  them  the  rumors  from  the  rear;  how 
the  division  is  going  to  Egypt  or  Salonica, 
then  after  a  rest,  a  real  one,  we  are  going 
to  take  over  garrison  duty  in  India,  reliev- 
ing the  territorial  battalions  that  haven't 
been  out  yet. 

Then  we  pick  up  our  rats  and  continue 

185 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


toward  the  flares.  It  is  midnight  and  al- 
most quiet.  Now  and  then  a  rifle  shot,  a 
few  spats  from  a  machine  gun  and  another 
flare.  Then  all  is  quiet  and  we  go  slowly  and 
silently  along  to  our  next  stop.  We  know  it 
well.  If  you  were  blind  you  couldn't  pass 
it.  The  odor  is  overpowering,  and  the 
ground  is  powdered  white  with  chloride  of 
lime.  The  powdering  must  be  done  for 
sanitary  reasons,  for  it  is  a  man's  foot.  Not 
much;  you  only  see  the  boot.  But  there  it 
is,  and  it  is  known  to  all  who  pass  that  way 
as  "The  Door  Knob"  and  the  last  halt  to 
rest  before  reaching  the  front  line. 

This  part  of  the  man,  toe  up,  was  dug 
into  when  this  new  communication  trench 
was  built.  There  it  stayed,  bidding  those 
who  entered  "welcome"  and  those  who 
came  out,  "good-bye"  and  "good  luck." 

From  now  on,  we  go  in  silence.  Each 
man  knows  his  job  and  what  to  do.  Any 
cursing  is  under  his  breath,  for  our  friends 
across  the  wire  must  not  know  of  our  little 

186 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


surprise  or  the  front  line  will  get  severely 
strafed  in  an  effort  to  smash  our  rats,  and 
this  would  not  be  good.  So  with  a  grunt 
and  a  groan,  we  pick  them  up  and  trudge 
silently  on.  Where  we  are  placing  them 
to-night  is  only  eighty  yards  from  Fritz, 
and  as  we  slip  them  into  their  place  we  must 
be  very  careful  that  we  do  not  knock  them 
one  against  the  other. 

A  twist  and  a  turn  and  we  are  in  the  front 
line,  and  we  put  our  first  pet  into  its  place, 
ready  and  waiting  to  take  its  revenge  for 
the  dastardly  crime  of  the  Huns  at  Ypres. 
And  with  a  loving  pat  we  leave  it  to  put 
the  next  in  place.  On  one  end  of  the  fire 
platform  stands  the  sentry,  head  and  shoul- 
ders above  the  parapet.  He  may  as  well 
be  dead  for  all  the  movement  he  makes. 
Yet  those  keen  eyes  of  his  are  searching 
and  watching.  At  his  feet  is  his  pal, 
stretched  out  on  his  back,  asleep  and  snor- 
ing, the  only  noise  in  that  line  except  the 
hiss  of  flares  as  they  rise  and  fall.    Neither 

187 


OVER  THERE  AND^BACK 


notices  us.  There  is  none  of  that  chatter- 
ing as  in  the  supports.  It  is  all  business, 
life  and  death,  and — when  not  on  duty — 
rest,  preparing  for  more  business. 

In  go  our  rats  silently,  methodically,  and 
we  turn  to  go  out  the  "down"  trench,  for 
there  is  a  system,  highly  efficient,  and  you 
go  down  another  way  to  allow  the  great 
string  of  rats  coming  "up"  to  continue  with- 
out a  stop,  for  we  must  pay  "them"  back  in 
their  own  coin. 

As  we  leave,  the  flares  are  still  going  up 
and  down,  but  already  we  are  too  far  away 
to  hear  the  hiss.  Our  backs  are  to  them, 
and  we  are  traveling  fast,  as  we  have  far 
to  go  for  breakfast  and  are  hungry. 

As  we  go,  we  pass  the  night's  toll  of  suf- 
fering, the  "walking  wounded" — a  man 
with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  another  one  ill,  and 
a  third  riding  the  back  of  a  stretcher  bearer, 
his  ankle  broken  by  falling  through  a 
hole  in  the  trench  floor.  All  three  are  su- 
premely happy  and  inform  us  as  they  rest 

188 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


and  we  pass,  that  they  are  ''Blighty 
bound." 

''Congratulations,"  "lucky  devils"  and 
"rub  it  in,"  we  call  to  them  as  we  pass. 
Then  they  are  forgotten  as  we  come  into  the 
open  and  start  racing  for  our  lorries  with 
another  party  of  ratters. 

As  we  climb  on  them  and  the  motors  start, 
dawn  begins  to  break,  flares  cease,  rifle  and 
machine-gun  fire  is  heard,  with  some  ar- 
tillery, and  we  know  that  the  boys  in  the 
front  line  are  "standing  to,"  guarding  our 
rats,  until  such  time  as  they  may  be  turned 
loose  on  the  Hun  who  introduced  them  to 
the  world. 


189 


XI 


"You  will  report  to  the  War  Office,  Lon- 
don, for  instructions. '^ 

Thus  read  an  order  handed  to  me  by  my 
colonel  a  few  days  later.  I  had  reported  to 
him  in  obedience  to  an  order  which  had 
reached  me  down  in  our  hut  a  few  minutes 
before.  He  shook  hands  and  congratulated 
me. 

"As  an  officer,  you  know,  you'll  have  to 
shave  every  day,"  he  said. 

So  I  left  him  and  my  battalion,  a  buck 
private  for  the  last  time.  It  hurt  to  leave 
them,  too.  I  had  lived  with  them,  these 
boys,  for  more  than  a  year.  We  had  crossed 
a  continent  and  an  ocean  together;  we  had 
suffered  and  celebrated  together,  but  a  sol- 
dier has  no  business  to  be  full  of  sentiment, 
so  we  went  down  to  the  estaminet,  touched 
glasses  and  grasped  hands,  and  I  hurried  to 
railhead. 

190 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


By  that  time  I  was  rather  awed  by  the 
feeling  of  responsibility  that  had  been  com- 
ing over  me.  I  gladly  accepted  the  chance 
for  promotion,  but  nevertheless  it  rather 
spoiled  my  trip  down  the  line.  I  kept  won- 
dering all  the  time  whether  I  was  fit  for  the 
job. 

Lots  of  sleep  made  the  time  to  London  go 
quickly  and  the  War  Office  passed  me  just 
as  quickly  to  a  training  school  for  officers. 
Over  that  training  school  I  am  going  to 
draw  a  thick  veil.  It  makes  my  head  ache 
yet  to  think  of  it.  Work?  There  is  no 
word  to  describe  it.  What  weight  didn't 
drip  from  me  with  a  thousand  and  one 
kinds  of  labor  I  lost  through  anxiety  as  to 
whether  I  would  pass  my  exams.  I  did 
pass,  though,  and  while  I  was  recovering 
my  breath  I  was  sent  out  to  my  new  regi- 
ment in  France. 

The  old  play  times  with' my  Canadian 
pals  were  gone.  Responsibilities  left  no 
time  for  the  light  and  lightsome  hours  of 

191 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


song,  and  story,  and  games  with  which  we 
passed  the  time  in  billets.  I  missed  the  boys 
but  I  fell  in  love  with  my  new  friends,  my 
'Jocks" ;  the  finest  fellows  in  the  world. 

While  'Tommy  Atkins"  is  the  British 
soldier's  nickname  and  he  is  known  by  it  all 
over  the  world,  inside  the  army  he  divides 
the  units  and  renames  them  to  suit  himself. 
By  these  names  they  are  known,  so  far  as 
he  is  concerned. 

''Jock"  is  the  name  he  has  given  to  all 
Scotch  troops,  whether  they  be  the  kilted 
"Ladies  from  Hell"  or  the  plain  panta- 
looned  lowland  regiments.  And  "Jock"  is 
about  the  hardest  fighting,  toughest  muscled 
individual  who  ever  crossed  to  France.  Co- 
lonials and  everybody  else  are  included  in 
this  judgment.  He  assimilates  the  punish- 
ment of  long  hikes,  mud  and  water,  insuffer- 
able hours  in  the  fire  trenches,  and  the 
other  little  pleasantries  of  life  in  France 
with  a  grin  and  then  seems  to  ask  for  more. 

Take  him  out  of  the  trenches  and  see  that 

192 


The  Author  in  His  Uniform  as  2nd  Lieutenant  in  a  Scotch 

Regiment 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


he  gets  comfortable  billets,  three  meals  a 
day  and  his  tot  of  rum  at  night  and  he  will 
^'grouse"  for  hours.  France  and  everyone 
who  comes  within  range  of  his  voice  is  a 
part  of  his  condemnation,  but  the  next  sec- 
ond he  will  sit  down  and  write  to  his 
mother,  his  sweetheart,  or  his  wife  and  wee 
laddies  letters  full  of  uncomplaining  gos- 
sip, optimism  and  love,  always  promising 
to  be  home  soon  and  always  knowing  he  is 
lying  in  his  promise. 

At  night  out  of  the  trenches  you  will  find 
the  '^ocks"  in  the  estaminet,  a  room  reek- 
ing with  stale  tobacco  smoke  and  the  odor 
of  perspiring  bodies,  their  glasses  of  watery 
beer  in  front  of  them.  Dimly  you  see 
through  the  haze,  over  in  the  corner  behind 
the  bar,  madame  making  change  and  push- 
ing filled  glasses  toward  a  dozen  struggling 
men,  roaring  with  them  Harry  Lauder  fa- 
vorites or  some  old  folk  song  with  sentiment 
in  every  line.  But  I  must  not  call  it  roar- 
ing— these  songs.    The  boys  sing  well,  their 

193 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


voices  are  fresh  and  full  of  music  and  many 
a  night  have  I  had  a  lump  brought  to  my 
throat  as  the  strains  of  ''Annie  Laurie"  or 
some  one  of  the  other  north  country  melo- 
dies came  floating  to  me  across  the  night, 
borne  by  the  volume  of  a  hundred  voices. 

The  next  night  finds  them  up  the  line 
repairing  their  trenches,  bailing  water  out 
of  dugouts,  shoveling  mud,  carrying  ra- 
tions or  lying  keen-eyed  behind  their  Lewis 
guns  watching  for  signs  of  mischief  from 
Fritz.  The  mud  may  have  oozed  to  their 
skin,  they  may  be  cold  almost  to  numbness, 
but  they  are  not  ''grousing"  now.  They 
may  be  whispering  of  the  folks  at  home,  of 
the  shooting  in  the  hills  or  the  fishing  in  the 
firths.  It  may  be  they  are  speculating  con- 
cerning the  fate  of  one  of  the  platoon, 
wounded  last  time  in,  or  gossiping  of  the 
battalion,  or  politics,  but  they  calmly  accept 
the  life  as  it  is. 

If  they  are  moving  up  to  attack  they  seem 
to  fear  nothing.    If  such  a  sensation  as  fear 

194 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


does  enter  their  hearts  not  a  soul  would  ever 
suspect  it.  They  are  not  serious,  however. 
Their  jaws  are  not  set  in  the  firm,  deter- 
mined line  that  delights  the  story  writer, 
yet  they  are  not  boisterous.  They  move 
along  carelessly  and  easily,  cursing  at  some 
delay  in  front  and  wondering  if  they  will 
get  their  rations  at  the  new  line  to-morrow 
night. 

Pals  have  turned  over  home  addresses  to 
one  another  with  no  word  of  comment.  It 
is  all  understood.  They  have  said  who  may 
take  any  of  their  parcels  that  arrive  if  they 
are  not  there;  letters  are  always  returned  to 
the  senders  with  'Vounded,"  ^'killed  in  ac- 
tion," or  ^^missing"  written  across  them. 
Parcels  are  bequeathed  to  a  particular  pal 
or  to  the  platoon  to  be  divided  among  all 
the  men. 

It  gives  one  a  queer  feeling  to  sit  down 
and  eat  a  bit  of  cake  made  by  loving  hands 
at  home  for  ^'the  boy"  out  at  the  front  when 
you  know  that  boy  is  "out  there"  some- 

195 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


where,  a  part,  for  all  time,  of  the  earth 
that  is  being  churned  into  water  or  into 
dust;  that  he  has  given  his  all  to  the  cause 
of  his  country. 

It  is  the  unwritten  law  of  the  army, 
though — this  custom — and  'jock's"  spirit, 
while  it  responds  to  grief  for  the  loss  of  a 
friend,  cannot  be  kept  down  long. 

Two  men  came  to  my  platoon  while  we 
were  in  the  Loos  sector.  One  was  a  boy 
of  twenty,  and  this  was  his  first  time  out. 
He  was  tall;  six  feet  two,  and  thin  as  a 
rail.  McCluskey  was  his  name.  His  pal 
was  just  about  medium  height  with  a  heart 
as  big  as  his  body.  He  loved  McCluskey. 
MacKenzie  was  his  name. 

McCluskey  and  MacKenzie  were  put  in 
different  sections  by  my  sergeant,  but  they 
came  to  me  at  once  and  complained.  They 
wanted  to  be  put  together.  So  I  made  the 
change,  putting  them  in  the  first  section, 
where  they  stayed.  When  we  went  to  the 
trenches  for  our  tour  of  duty  or  were  out 

196 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


on  carrying  parties,  MacKenzie  always  was 
leading  man,  with  McCluskey  right  behind, 
and  they  would  fight  if  any  one  attempted  to 
usurp  their  places. 

In  traveling  through  trenches  you  fre- 
quently come  to  what  is  known  as  an  over- 
head traverse.  These  are  barricades  built 
across  the  top  of  the  trench  to  prevent 
enemy  observation  or  fire  down  long, 
straight  lengths  of  trenches.  On  reaching 
one  of  these  MacKenzie  would  say:  ''Mind 
ye'r  topsy,  McCluskey"  (in  other  words, 
''Duck  your  nut"),  and  McCluskey  would 
answer,  "right  ye  are,  Mac." 

Again,  in  a  trench,  you  will  always  find 
places  where  the  trench  floor  has  fallen  in. 
On  coming  to  one  of  these  holes  I  would 
hear  MacKenzie  call  softly:  "Jock  and 
Jill,  McCluskey,"  and  McCluskey  answer: 
"Right  ye  are,  Mac." 

Soon  I  was  very  careful  to  make  certain 
that  these  two  men  always  got  just  behind 
me  so  I  could  listen  to  their  conversation, 

197 


0\^R  THERE  AND  BACK 


until  one  night,  while  we  were  on  a  carry- 
ing party,  the  tragedy  came.  Passing 
through  a  piece  of  trench  blown  in  by  shell 
fire  and  marked  by  Fritz  with  fixed  rifles, 
one  of  their  bullets  went  through  McClus- 
key's  head.  The  boy  dropped  without  a 
murmur.  We  stopped  long  enough  to  put 
him  to  one  side  until  we  should  be  coming 
"down"  again.  MacKenzie  helped,  but 
never  a  word  did  he  say. 

Coming  down,  we  fixed  up  a  litter  and 
carried  him  back  to  billets,  the  company 
turning  out  the  next  morning  to  give  him 
a  military  funeral.  I  watched  MacKenzie 
as  the  tears  rolled  down  his  face. 

After  lunch  I  sent  for  him  to  get 
McCluskey's  home  address  verified,  and 
when  he  came  in  I  told  him  how  sorry  I 
was  over  his  loss  of  his  pal.  He  told  me  he 
knew  the  "damn  fool"  w^ould  get  his  head 
blown  ofif  as  it  stuck  so  high  into  the  air, 
and,  anyway,  he  never  would  have  made  a 
"good  enou'  trench  warrior." 

198 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


That  was  the  way  one  ^^o^k,"  plainly 
bowed  with  grief,  took  the  death  of  his  best 
friend. 

My  personal  orderly,  Dempsey,  was  a 
youngster  of  twenty-two,  who  had  been  in 
France  since  September,  1914,  and  only 
home  on  leave  once  in  that  time.  Really, 
he  didn't  care  much  about  going  home.  He 
had  more  fun  ^^out  here,"  he  told  me  many 
times.  He  was  the  best  natured  boy  I  ever 
knew,  and  no  matter  what  the  circumstances 
nor  how  trying  our  position,  he  always 
could  find  something  from  which  to  extract 
a  laugh.  I  valued  him  very  highly  for  these 
characteristics  and  permitted  him  a  little 
more  latitude  than  is  customary. 

In  November,  1916,  our  battalion  was  on 
the  Ancre  and  in  the  advance.  Even  so,  we 
were  having  an  unusual  run  of  hard  luck, 
and  this  especially  applied  to  our  company, 
which  seemed  to  get  into  every  hot  hole  in 
the  vicinity. 

On    November    13,    on    a    dark,    foggy 

199 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


morning,  we  opened  up  an  attack,  our 
company  being  one  of  the  first  to  go  over. 
With  Dempsey  at  my  side  we  started  off, 
the  company  about  forty  strong.  We  made 
our  objective  and  consolidated  what  we 
could  by  about  two  o'clock  that  afternoon, 
and  sat  down  to  wait  for  what  would  hap- 
pen. But  nothing  very  much  happened, 
greatly  to  our  surprise.  Supplies  were 
brought  up,  reserves  came  along  to  help  us 
hold  the  line  and  Dempsey  roamed  the 
field  looking  for  souvenirs. 

The  night  of  the  fifteenth  we  were  re- 
lieved to  go  behind  the  lines  and  reorgan- 
ize. About  three  o'clock  the  next  morning 
we  arrived  in  billets,  dead  tired  but  very 
happy.  I  had  been  reported  killed  and  my 
valise,  with  a  change  of  clothing  and  my 
bed,  had  been  sent  down  the  line.  Demp- 
sey was  equal  to  the  occasion,  however,  and 
produced  a  bed — from  where  shall  always 
remain  a  mystery.  Things  went  bad  in  the 
line  and  at  six  o'clock  that  evening,  a  con- 
siderably   battered    bunch    of    men,    we 

200 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


marched  away  to  brigade  reserve  behind 
the  lines.  The  men  were  still  pretty  much 
exhausted  from  their  previous  three  days 
and  roundly  cursed  the  troops  in  the  front, 
but  up  they  went. 

On  the  night  of  the  seventeenth  we  were 
ordered  to  relieve  a  knocked  about  bat- 
talion in  a  new  part  of  the  line  a  little  fur- 
ther south.  Considering  that  I  had  one 
other  officer  and  sixty-seven  effectives  by 
that  time,  in  my  company,  it  struck  us  as  a 
rather  ghastly  joke. 

Eventually  we  reached  the  new  line,  if 
you  can  call  it  that,  since  there  were  no 
trenches.  Only  a  couple  of  dugouts  could 
be  found.  I  divided  the  company  into 
two  parts,  half  in  each  dugout.  The  rest 
of  the  night  I  spent  getting  our  bearings, 
with  Dempsey's  help,  while  the  men 
stocked  up  the  shelters  with  rations  and 
water.  At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  all 
the  men  with  me  turned  into  our  shelter 
— one  of  the  kind  known  as  a  '^tube." 

If  you  took  half  a  subway  car,  stuck  it 

SOI 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


in  the  ground  and  covered  the  top  with  two 
or  three  feet  of  earth,  you  would  have  a 
''tube"  dugout.  Inside  are  seats  as  in  the 
subway,  and  through  the  center  runs  a 
rudely  constructed  table. 

Instantly  the  seats  were  crowded  with 
''Jocks,"  full  fighting  kit  on,  dog  tired,  and 
trying  to  rest.  In  the  center  of  the  table  I 
placed  some  rations.  Just  outside,  two  sen- 
tries were  posted  while  inside  we  slept. 

Six  o'clock  came,  and  with  it  merry  hell! 
The  Canadians  just  south  of  us  were 
launching  an  attack  and  the  Germans  had 
put  a  barrage  on  our  lines.  I  went  outside 
to  see  my  sentries.  It  was  just  breaking  day 
and  a  light  snow  was  falling.  The  shelling 
was  heavy  and  was  being  aided  by  machine- 
gun  fire.  I  turned  to  go  in  and  rout  out 
the  men,  as  I  thought  we  were  to  be  at- 
tacked. Just  as  I  stepped  in,  a  shell  lit  at 
the  door,  seriously  wounding  the  two  sen- 
tries. We  dragged  them  inside  and  the 
shelling  increased  to  such  violence  there 

202 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


was  no  use  putting  other  sentries  out.  I 
held  a  candle  while  the  Red  Cross  men 
bandaged  the  wounded,  both  with  bad 
thigh  wounds.  The  candle  was  blown  out 
time  and  time  again  by  the  concussion  of  the 
shells  and  the  place  reeked  with  burnt  pow- 
der and  blood. 

All  day  this  fire  continued.  The  entrance 
to  our  dugout  was  blown  in  twice  so  that  we 
had  to  dig  it  out  to  get  fresh  air.  One  man 
crept  through  the  opening  for  a  moment. 
We  never  found  him.  The  rear  corner  was 
blow^n  off  and  some  of  the  men  were  made 
violently  ill  by  the  fumes,  but  still  we  sat 
there,  waiting  for  the  crash  that  would  hurl 
us  into  eternity.  It  never  came,  though, 
and  a  little  after  ten  that  night  it  grew  quiet 
enough  for  us  to  risk  leaving  our  shelter. 
We  had  two  badly  wounded  men  to  get  to 
the  dressing  station  and  water  and  rations  to 
locate,  but  the  relief  to  the  nerves  after  that 
day  of  hell  was  so  great  that  the  men  went 
out  on  their  parties  softly  singing.    Exhaus- 

^03 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


tion  could  not  stop  them.  The  rest  of  the 
night  and  the  next  day  were  comparatively 
quiet  and  that  evening  we  were  relieved. 

After  we  had  got  out  of  the  trenches  and 
were  walking  along  the  road  toward  our 
billets  I  said  to  Dempsey:  ''Well,  what  did 
you  think  of  day  before  yesterday?" 

'Well,  sir,  it  was  like  this,"  he  replied. 
"When  they  opened  up  at  six  o'clock  I 
thought  it  was  just  the  usual  'stand  to' 
racket.  About  eight  I  thought  they  were 
going  to  attack.  By  nine  I  thought  they 
were  attacking  right  beside  us.  By  eleven 
I  didn't  know  what  to  think.  And  by  one — 
well,  I  was  so  disgusted  I  just  pulled  my 
tin  hat  over  my  face  and  said:  'To  hell 
with  it.' " 

That  is  the  spirit  of  those  fine  lads  from 
Scotland.  "Never  heed"  is  their  cry. 
"Let's  get  on  with  it." 


204 


XII 

It  was  at  a  detail  camp  back  of  the 
Ancre  on  our  first  long  rest  in  weeks,  that 
I  met  Susan.  We  had  had  little  but  parades 
to  bother  us  for  a  fortnight  or  so. 

Susan  was  on  her  way  home  from  India 
to  Plymouth,  with  her  regiment,  when  the 
war  broke  out.  She  was  about  ten  days 
out  from  India  on  that  momentous  fourth 
of  August,  she  would  tell  you  with  her 
quivering  mouth  and  big,  soft  eyes  if  you 
fed  her  enough  sugar.  So  you  may  surmise, 
Susan  was  one  of  ^'the  old  contemptibles," 
and  did  her  bit  for  the  world  during  those 
strenuous  first  months  of  the  war. 

She  is  still  doing  it,  too,  passing  from 
month  to  month  and  year  to  year,  going  her 
way  over  icy,  treacherous  stone  roads  in  the 
winter,  sinking  to  her  belly  in  the  clinging 
mud  of  spring,  enjoying  intensely  the  all  too 
few  months  of  summer.     But  never  in  all 

205 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


the  time  has  Susan  lost  her  proud  bearing. 
Always  is  the  arch  of  her  neck  at  its  high- 
est, the  swish  of  her  tail  quick  and  full  of 
life.  Her  step,  too,  is  elastic,  as  it  should 
be,  for  is  she  not  D  company  commander's 
horse? 

She  has  all  the  proud  traditions  of  her 
regiment  behind  her;  the  oldest  regiment  in 
the  British  army  with  its  history  that  dates 
back  nearly  to  1400,  and  still  held  up  by 
the  finest  fighting  men  on  earth,  the  Scotch- 
men, who  fight  with  a  pride  of  race  and 
regiment  that  none  can  surpass.  Even  as 
the  men  were  Scotch,  so  was  Susan. 

She  whispered  to  me,  with  her  sensitive 
ears  ever  alert,  of  her  wonder  at  the  whole 
business;  it  was  so  strange,  so  bewildering. 
What  was  it  all  about?  This  see-sawing 
back  and  forth  of  men,  horses  and  guns? 
Every  one  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry,  rushing 
from  here  to  there,  then  back  again  with  no 
apparent  reason.  For  five  or  six  days  her 
master  would  take  her  out  every  day  at  the 

206 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


head  of  his  company  and  she  would  see  the 
men;  clean,  cheery,  singing  men,  swinging 
along  headed  by  their  pipers.  How  she 
loved  those  pipers!  And  how  the  men  loved 
them!  They  would  lapse  into  silence  as  the 
pipes  started,  and  trudge  along  with  their 
thoughts  away  off  in  the  beautiful  Scotch 
highlands  or  in  "auld  Reekie,"  or  maybe 
they  would  be  buried  in  memories  of  pleas- 
ant duties  at  the  Castle. 

Not  so,  old  Susan,  though.  That  was  the 
time  when  she  showed  the  boys  what  a 
credit  she  was  to  their  never  fading  glory. 
She  pranced  proudly,  tail  and  neck;  yes, 
every  muscle  a-quiver,  to  the  tune  of  those 
pipes.  The  men  saw  her  and  liked  her  for 
it.  One  of  their  own,  they  called  her.  Her 
captain  on  her  back  felt  her  pride,  and  took 
his  seat  a  little  more  erectly  with  a  tighter 
grip  of  her  side,  and  let  her  prance. 

Such  was  Susan  and  her  Scotchmen. 

Then  they  would  all  leave  for  five  or  six 
days,    marching   off   silently   and   heavily 

207 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


loaded,  looking  like  mushrooms  under 
those  funny  tin  things  they  wore  on  their 
heads  instead  of  the  jaunty  Glengarries,  and 
Susan  would  be  left  alone  at  the  detail 
camp  with  her  groom.  Not  really  alone, 
though,  for  detail  camp  is  a  busy  place. 
There  were  lots  of  horses,  the  other  com- 
pany horses,  but  none  of  the  '^old  reliables." 
They  had  all  gone;  some  had  been  killed, 
many  died  in  service,  but  all  were  gone. 

Peter,  who  used  to  play  polo  in  India, 
and  carried  A  company's  captain,  had  a 
bomb  dropped  on  him  from  a  German 
aeroplane  while  they  were  marching  away 
from  Mons. 

Jill,  poor  old  Jill,  used  to  carry  B  com- 
pany's captain.  While  the  company  was 
engaged  in  a  rear  guard  action  one  day  dur- 
ing the  retreat,  she  had  come  into  close  con- 
tact with  the  enemy  and  under  heavy  shell 
fire.  She  was  left  standing  quiet,  held  by 
her  groom,  while  the  captain  fought  with 
his  company.    A  shell  lit  close  by,  terrify- 

S08 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


ing  the  animal.  With  a  snort  of  terror  she 
broke  from  the  groom,  who  already  was 
sinking  to  the  ground  with  a  piece  of  shell 
casing  through  his  chest,  and  galloped 
madly  down  the  road  toward  the  enemy. 
But  not  for  far. 

Their  machine-guns  stopped  old  Jill  sud- 
denly, so  that  when  she  dropped  her  body 
slid  ten  or  twelve  feet  along  the  road.  And 
even  as  she  fell,  she  died,  lying  on  her  back, 
her  four  legs  sticking  into  the  air  like  four 
direction  posts  at  a  cross  road. 

Then  there  was  Jack,  of  C  company,  who 
carried  seven  company  commanders  in  as 
many  days,  each  one  leaving  as  suddenly 
as  he  came.  Some  had  dismounted  to  go 
forward  and  reconnoiter  and  never  had  re- 
turned. Others  had  lurched  out  of  the  sad- 
dle as  though  drunk,  lying  on  the  road  with 
a  dark  blot  slowly  spreading  out  from  be- 
neath them.  Then  some  poor,  foot  sore, 
weary  "Tommy"  had  mounted  him  and 
they  had  continued,  always  toward  the  rear. 

209 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


After  Jill's  death  Jack  and  Susan  had 
become  pals,  and  as  she  thought  of  him 
now  she  moved  restlessly  on  her  picket  line, 
for  she  had  loved  Jack.  They  had  often 
compared  notes  and  wondered  what  it  all 
meant;  the  continual  bang,  the  continual 
wailing  and  screaming  noises  in  the  air. 
They  had  come  up  these  roads  ten  days  be- 
fore, then  they  had  gone  back  the  same  way, 
the  men  staggering  along,  eyes  almost  shut 
from  lack  of  sleep  and  with  faces  haggard 
and  drawn  and  covered  with  dust  and 
beard.  When  they  rested  at  the  roadside 
they  slept  even  as  they  touched  the  ground 
and  it  was  hard  to  waken  them.  They,  Jack 
and  Susan,  were  hungry.  So  was  every- 
body, but  when  it  was  time  to  eat  it  also 
happened  it  was  time  to  fight.  There  would 
be  more  bangs,  more  flashes,  and  they 
would  start  again,  always  toward  the  rear, 
only  there  would  be  a  few  less  men  and 
those  remaining  would  stagger  a  little  more 
in   their  walk.     Some  would   drift   along 

210 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


with  their  eyes  shut,  but  always  they  cried: 
^'Stick  it,  Jock,"  or  '^Never  heed."  Won- 
derful men! 

Passing  at  a  gallop,  going  back  to  take 
up  other  positions,  would  go  the  artillery. 
Not  the  smart,  swanky  artillery  of  the  old 
parade  ground  days,  for  nothing  sparkled 
and  glittered  in  the  sunlight  now.  Every- 
thing was  covered  with  grime  and  dust. 
The  men  sat  their  horses  and  limbers  as 
dead  men  might  and  they  dressed  in  all 
manner  of  costumes ;  everything  but  regula- 
tion. While  firing  they  had  discarded  caps 
and  tunics;  in  limbering  up  to  move  away, 
done  at  the  last  possible  moment,  these 
very  necessary  parts  of  the  uniform  were 
invariably  left  behind,  and  as  they  passed 
through  deserted  villages  the  men  would 
pick  up  what  they  could  find,  so  that  you 
might  see  some  young  driver,  dragging  his 
gun  along  at  a  dead  gallop,  sitting  the  saddle 
in  a  frock  coat  and  top  hat.  Those  were 
strange  days,  though. 

211 


OVERTHERE  AND^BACK 


How  Jack  and  Susan  got  through  such 
times  one  can  only  guess.  What  a  pity 
horses  cannot  really  speak  and  tell  us  of 
their  worries  and  troubles  and  what  they 
think  of  it  all. 

Susan  nearly  could.  Her  wonderfully 
eloquent  ears  spoke  as  do  a  Frenchman's 
hands  and  the  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  And 
her  mouth!  If  horses  had  kissable  mouths, 
Susan's  certainly  was  one  of  them.  What 
horse  does  not  have  eyes  that  tell  you  a  story 
if  you  care  to  read?  Susan's  seemed  to  grow 
sad,  even  tragic,  as  I  fed  her  more  sugar 
and  she  told  me  more  of  the  days  gone  by. 

Now  they  had  turned,  going  forward  for 
the  second  time.  The  men  straightened 
their  shoulders,  stepping  out  with  an  alert, 
quick  step,  and  began  that  wonderful  race 
from  the  Aisne  to  the  North  Sea.  Susan 
told  me  of  one  bitter  night  when  they  felt 
the  tang  of  salt  air  in  Belgium,  borne  by  a 
sweeping  wind,  cold  and  cruel,  from  that 
sea,  sweeping  with  it  rain  that  was  cruel, 
too,  in  its  violence. 

212 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


It  beat  into  their  faces  so  that  they  were 
nearly  blinded.  It  beat  onto  Jack's  chest 
as  he  walked  at  the  head  of  his  company, 
until  he  staggered  and  his  breath  came 
hard,  so  that  his  captain  got  off  to  walk. 
Even  then  Jack  staggered,  tossing  his  head 
as  though  to  shake  off  that  which  was  grad- 
ually creeping  over  him.  It  was  no  use. 
He  was  done.  He  stopped  from  sheer  in- 
ability to  go  on.  His  hindquarters  swung 
from  side  to  side,  gaining  momentum  until 
he  finally  crashed  to  the  ground,  finished. 
Then  his  captain,  out  of  the  tenderness  of 
his  heart,  took  out  his  gun  and  with  his  eyes 
blinded  by  tears,  sent  one  more  soul  out  of 
its  earthly  shell,  for  King  and  Country. 
For  horses  have  souls,  even  if  they  do  not 
appear  in  the  casualty  lists  and  have  a 
wooden  cross  with  ^'R.  I.  P."  on  it. 

Susan  whinnied  as  she  passed  and  there 
was  no  answer  from  her  old  friend  lying 
there  by  the  road.  And  she  kept  on  whin- 
nying all  the  night.  Even  as  she  whis- 
pered of  it  to  me  months  later  she  whin- 

213 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


nied  as  though  she  would  call  Jack  back. 
But  in  answer  came  the  nicker  and  the 
whinny  of  all  those  horses  on  the  picket 
line,  for  Susan  was  their  queen.  They 
looked  to  her  for  advice  and  consolation 
in  the  strange  life  into  which  they  had  come, 
for,  as  I  said  before,  she  was  an  "old  con- 
temptible," and  could  tell  them.  She  could 
even  tell  them  how  it  felt  to  be  wounded, 
but  she  wouldn't  take  the  time  now.  It  was 
noon,  and  feed  time,  and  Susan  was  a  good 
soldier.  She  took  good  care  of  herself  that 
she  might  live  and  render  full  value  to  her 
country.  So  with  her  nose  buried  in  a  feed 
bag  and  the  warm  sun  on  her  back,  she 
would  have  no  more  of  me. 

In  the  afternoon  life  in  the  detail  camp  is 
a  busy  one,  for  this  is  where  all  the  supplies, 
food,  rations,  ammunition,  etc.,  are  brought 
from  the  railhead  for  the  battalion  and  then 
forwarded  nightly  as  far  as  possible  toward 
the  trenches  by  horse  and  wagon.  To  this 
point  the  men  from  the  trenches  come  down 

214 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


and  carry  the  stuff  up  to  their  position  in 
the  line. 

Stores  of  bombs  are  laid  out  and  rations 
are  put  in  bags  and  marked  with  the  name 
of  the  company  for  which  they  are  in- 
tended. The  mail  for  the  day  is  sorted  and 
about  half  past  three  or  so  the  limbers  for 
each  company  are  loaded  and  started  off 
on  their  night^s  work.  They  will  return 
about  three  in  the  morning,  maybe,  for  they 
go  as  close  to  the  trenches  as  possible,  com- 
ing under  machine-gun  and  shell  fire,  so 
that  the  infantry  will  not  have  too  far  to 
come.  The  foot  sloggers  have  enough  to 
do  without  unnecessarily  tiring  them- 
selves. 

Here,  too,  to  this  camp  come  the  men 
from  the  line  who  are  going  on  leave.  They 
are  happy.  Once  more  they  will  see  their 
loved  ones  and  have  ten  days  of  good  times. 
From  their  tent  or  hut,  that  night,  as  they 
lie  there  waiting  to  be  paid  and  leave  for 
railhead,  you  will  hear  them  singing  old 

215 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


folk  songs  of  Scotland;  the  most  wonderful 
songs  of  all,  full  of  sentiment,  and  sung  so 
they  go  right  into  your  heart.  They  change 
at  times  to  Harry  Lauder  stuff;  rollicking 
happy  old  Harry,  that  also  is  good  to  hear. 

Then  there  are  the  last  drafts  of  rein- 
forcements in  camp  also,  just  come  in  from 
railhead  to-day.  They  will  wait  here  until 
the  battalion  comes  out  of  the  line,  then  be 
apportioned  among  the  different  com- 
panies. Some  of  them  are  new  men,  first 
time  out.  They  are  curious,  excited,  eager 
to  know  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  every- 
thing, but  also  they  are  of  very  good  spirits, 
as  one  man  who  had  left  England  on  Christ- 
mas day  testified  in  a  letter:  "For  a  Christ- 
mas present  this  year  the  government  have 
given  me  a  trip  abroad,  but  what  a  trip! 
Mud,  mud,  everywhere;  mud  and  a  roar- 
ing noise.  Even  the  tea  looks  like  mud. 
But  it's  great!" 

That's  the  attitude  of  the  new  arrival. 

The  old  timer  who  carries  one,  two,  or 

216 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


even  more  wound  stripes  on  his  arm  looks 
for  old  friends.  Failing  to  find  them,  he 
looks  for  anything  to  pinch  which  is  laying 
about  loose  and  which  will  add  to  his  ma- 
terial comfort. 

It  is  a  busy  place,  all  right,  the  detail 
camp,  with  its  picket  line  of  horses  standing 
under  an  overhead  shelter;  all  round,  the 
mud;  limp  walls  of  two  or  three  rows  of 
little  bell  tents  where  live  the  drivers  and 
grooms  of  the  transports,  along  with  the 
supply  officer  and  his  men.  Draft  and 
leave  men  are  tucked  away  in  here  and  at 
the  end  of  the  row  are  two  or  three  big  tents 
where  the  supplies  are  stored  until  it  is  time 
to  send  them  up  the  line. 

It  is  the  hour  for  the  afternoon  start  now 
and  the  limbers  are  crowded  in  front  of 
these  tents  taking  on  their  sandbags  of  char- 
coal, food  and  mail  for  the  fellows  up  in 
front.  In  the  general  excitement  of  getting 
the  limbers  away,  I  grab  a  little  big  of  sugar 
and  go  back  to  the  horse  lines  and  Susan. 
217 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


She  whinnies  as  I  come  up,  for  she  is 
lonesome,  and  those  who  have  spent  much 
time  at  the  front  and  have  a  memory,  hate 
to  be  lonesome. 

I  gave  her  part  of  the  sugar  and  stroked 
her  near  flank  where  she  had  received  a 
wound.  She  seemed  to  sense  my  sympathy 
and  as  best  she  could  she  whispered  to  me 
of  one  day  at  the  beginning  of  the  second 
Battle  of  Ypres  when  the  battalion  was 
stretched  in  billets  for  a  rest. 

That  day  the  Germans  had  turned  loose 
their  gas.  Things  were  going  badly  in  the 
line  and  the  battalion  was  rushed  up  to  re- 
inforce. The  company  commanders  had 
gone  forward  on  their  horses  at  top  speed 
to  report  at  headquarters  in  Ypres  for  in- 
structions. Then  they  were  to  meet  the 
battalion  and  go  on. 

As  they  got  near  to  the  city  the  roads 
became  almost  impassable.  Confusion 
seemed  to  reign  supreme.  People — civ- 
ilians— came  down  the   road  in  unending 

218 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


masses.  Old  people,  bent  with  age,  looked 
neither  to  right  nor  left,  but  hobbled  on  as 
fast  as  they  could,  talking  to  themselves  or 
shouting  aloud  some  loved  one's  name. 
Little  kiddies,  barely  able  to  walk,  toddled 
along  crying,  wandering  aimlessly,  follow- 
ing the  crowd.  Going  up  toward  the  city 
were  the  troops,  marching  at  the  quick. 

Ahead  lay  the  city  itself,  and  Susan  con- 
fessed she  was  terrified.  The  cool  hand  of 
her  captain,  however,  calmed  her  and  re- 
stored her  confidence.  It  was  fearful  to  see, 
though,  that  city  enveloped  in  a  pall  of 
smoke,  fed  by  its  beautiful,  historic  build- 
ings all  on  fire  now;  a  pall  of  smoke  so  dense 
the  tops  of  the  buildings  could  scarce  be 
seen.  Away  to  the  front  as  a  small  rise  was 
topped,  appeared  clouds  of  fog,  which  was 
not  fog  at  all,  but  German  gas.  It  was  roll- 
ing toward  the  already  nearly  ruined  city. 

Ypres  was  a  roaring  mass  of  flames;  their 
crackling  increased  a  hundred-fold  by  the 
crash   of   exploding   shells,   making   livid 

S19 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


flashes  of  red,  which  spurted  through  the 
smoke  and  cut  into  the  dull  red  of  the 
greater  fire  which  was  consuming  the  town. 

Toward  this  Susan  galloped,  terror  in  her 
heart,  controlled  by  the  sense  of  duty  that  is 
ingrained  in  the  army  horse  as  it  is  in  the 
army  man. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  city  conditions 
were  worse,  if  possible,  than  they  had  been 
along  the  approaches.  All  about  lay  over- 
turned wagons,  or  pieces  of  them,  horses, 
men,  motor  lorries.  In  one  little  yard  one 
wheel  of  a  transport  wagon  stood  up  ready 
to  go  on  when  somebody  brought  the  rest 
of  the  wagon.  Even  the  inanimate  things 
defied  the  Hun  in  his  attempts  at  destruc- 
tion. 

In  the  city  the  crash  of  exploding  shells 
was  deafening.  Walls  were  crumbling  into 
roaring  furnaces  out  of  which  belched  great 
pillars  of  smoke.  These  pillars  the  Ger- 
man artillery  used  as  ranging  marks,  but 
it  was  firing  indiscriminately  so  that  the  air 

220 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


reeked  with  powder,  brick  dust  and  more 
horrible  smells. 

Susan  saw  in  the  broken  window  of  what 
once  had  been  a  house,  a  child's  leg  dan- 
gling through  the  pane.  Even  as  she 
looked,  a  woman  tore  it  from  the  window 
with  a  mad  shriek  and  went  screaming 
down  the  street  swinging  it  round  her  head 
like  a  club.  She  went  toward  the  Cloth 
Hall  and  her  death,  for  the  Cloth  Hall  was 
a  thing  of  beauty,  and  so  a  mark  for  the 
Hun's  artillery. 

Susan  told  me  how  she  snorted  with 
terror  as  she  nearly  stepped  on  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  a  man.  She  shied  and  almost 
unseated  her  captain. 

I  am  not  trying  to  horrify  you.  It  is  war 
— German  war — that  I  am  trying  to  tell 
you  of.  War  on  any  body  and  any  place 
that  gets  in  Kultur's  way.  It  horrified 
Susan  and  it  horrifies  me.  So  it  must  you, 
too,  when  you  know  of  it. 

It  was  Susan's  fate  to  see  no  more,  for 
221 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


it  was  here  she  was  wounded.  I  am  sure 
she  sighed  with  relief  as  she  struggled  to 
tell  me,  as  plainly  as  she  could,  how  there 
had  come  a  blinding  flash  nearby.  There 
was  so  much  noise  she  didn't  hear  the  ex- 
plosion. After  the  flash — less  than  a  sec- 
ond after — she  felt  a  blow  on  her  near  flank. 
It  felt  like  a  branding  iron  at  first,  but  it 
sank  into  the  flesh,  burning.  It  was  hot; 
oh,  so  hot!  And  it  kept  on  burning  as 
though  it  were  a  ball  of  fire.  She  bucked. 
She  screamed. 

Have  you  ever  heard  a  horse  scream  in 
pain  and  terror? 

Then  she  started  running. 

There  was  no  hand  on  her  bridle.  The 
captain  had  gone — gone  without  her  know- 
ing how  or  when,  and  she  never  knew.  But 
she  ran,  mad  with  pain,  fortunately  in  the 
right  direction.  She  may  have  knocked 
people  over.  She  thinks  she  did,  but  she 
doesn't  remember.  She  saw  long  lines  of 
khaki  moving  rapidly  toward  the  city,  but 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


they  paid  no  attention  to  her.  She  was  only 
one  of  numberless  horses  without  riders, 
and  added  just  so  much  to  the  confusion. 

Finally  exhaustion  forced  her  to  a  walk 
and  so  the  veterinarians  found  her.  They 
stopped  her,  spoke  kind  words  to  her, 
soothed  her,  and  all  the  time  worked  on  her 
torn  flank.  It  was  only  a  flesh  wound,  for- 
tunately, and  not  serious,  and  as  they  talked 
Susan  forgot  her  fear.  But  the  pain  was 
still  intense  and  she  was  slowly  led  off  to  a 
field  where  there  were  other  horses,  injured, 
with  masters  lost,  confined  in  a  kind  of 
loosely  constructed  corral.  So  she  left  her 
battalion  for.  three  months. 

When  she  returned  to  the  regiment  for 
duty  everything  had  changed.  The  old 
faces  were  gone,  many  of  them  never  to 
reappear,  but  she  was  treated  with  the  most 
flattering  respect  by  the  other  horses  at  de- 
tail camp  and  at  once  acknowledged  to  be 
their  leader. 

Time  passed.    The  men  continued  their 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


coming  and  going.  For  six,  eight,  ten,  even 
fifteen  days,  they  would  be  away  and  then 
they  would  come  back  weary  and  worn, 
eyes  bloodshot,  feet  torn,  uniforms  in  rags. 
Trench  warfare  was  well  under  way. 
Sometimes  her  captain  wouldn't  come  back 
and  she  would  mourn  the  loss  of  one  more 
friend  and  wonder  who  her  next  captain 
might  be. 

Susan  says  the  war  has  taught  her  one 
thing:  a  brave  man  never  abuses  a  dumb 
animal.  Every  captain  who  rode  her  was 
gentle  and  kind.  Some  of  them  hurt  her 
back  by  bobbing  all  over  the  saddle,  but 
she  was  patient  with  them  and  helped  them 
while  they  learned  to  ride.  Sometimes  it 
was  hard  and  strained  her  temper,  but  she 
bore  it  and  never  complained.  She  is  one 
of  the  heroes  of  the  war. 

One  of  the  heroes,  I  say,  because  there 
are  hundreds  of  thousands  like  her;  dumb 
animals  doing  their  work  faithfully  and 
well.    They  cannot  comprehend  it  all,  the 

224 


(g)  N.  T.  H.  Co. 

"GooD-BY,  Old  Man."   The  Bombaedier  axd  His  Dying  Friend 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


crashing,  roaring,  burning;  the  crazy  rush- 
ing about  from  place  to  place;  the  mud; 
the  uncertain  feeding.  But  they  go  on,  will- 
ingly and  uncomplainingly,  and  dying. 

No  greater  hero  passes  away  than  these 
horses.  Their  praises  remain  unsung.  They 
have  no  names  on  the  casualty  lists  and  no 
medals  of  honor  for  bravery  under  fire  are 
struck  for  them.  No  one  knows  of  them 
and — I  was  going  to  say  no  one  cares.  But 
there  I  am  wrong.  Their  drivers  and  their 
grooms  care,  but  what  can  they  do?  It  is 
part  and  parcel  of  the  Great  War  and  Susan 
knows  it.  So  she  carries  on  from  month  to 
month  until  the  time  shall  come  for  her 
passing  out — just  a  gentle,  dumb,  four- 
legged  animal  doing  her  share  for  King  and 
Country. 


^25 


XIII 

Just  behind  the  little  village  of  Monchy, 
or  the  remains  of  it,  is  a  cemetery — a  Brit- 
ish cemetery.  In  it  there  is  a  grave,  the 
same  as  another  thousand  or  so  in  the  same 
cemetery.  Over  it  is  a  little  wooden  cross, 
the  same  as  a  thousand  others,  except  for 
the  name.  That  name  is  the  name  of  my 
pal.  It  has  ^'R.  I.  P."  underneath.  He  has 
gone  with  all  the  others,  in  the  mad  excite- 
ment of  battle;  dropping  at  the  head  of  his 
men,  with  victory  in  sight. 

He  is  gone.  I'll  never  see  him  again  on 
this  old  earth,  but  I  remember  him.  The 
war  has  taught  me  the  meaning  of  that  old 
phrase,  ''gone  but  not  forgot." 

I  remember  when  he  first  came  to  Trin- 
ity where  we  were  all  studying  for  our  com- 
missions. He  was  young,  nineteen,  full  of 
life,  with  all  its  hopes  and  ambitions,  and 
unused  to  military  ways.     He  was  always 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


late  for  parades,  always  late  for  lectures, 
and  late  for  appointments.  Life  was  so 
new  and  full,  he  had  too  many  things  to  do. 

I  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  He 
was  leaving  the  base  in  France  to  join  his 
battalion.  He  was  late  for  the  train.  It 
was  made  up  of  cattle  cars.  As  it  pulled 
out,  he  rushed  down  the  hill  and  flung  him- 
self onto  the  side  of  the  next  to  the  last  car, 
late  again.  When  the  time  came,  though, 
for  his  last  appointment  he  was  there;  a 
young  boy  just  coming  into  manhood,  but 
bravely  keeping  his  appointment  with 
death,  with  trust  in  God  and  the  fear  of  no 
man  in  his  heart.    And  so  he  died. 

His  was  just  one  more  wooden  cross 
added  to  the  thousands  already  there;  just 
one  more  broken  family.  He  was  just  one 
more  reason  why  we  must  go  on,  so  that 
the  young  life  will  not  have  been  wasted; 
so  that  the  flower  of  our  manhood  which 
will  remain  abroad  will  not  have  been  cut 
down  in  vain. 

227 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


There  was  a  little  fellow  in  my  platoon. 
The  boys  called  him  ^'Charley  Chaplin." 
He  was  small — undersized — and  not  very 
strong.  I  had  often  looked  at  him  and  won- 
dered how  he  stood  it.  He  had  a  little 
mustache  like  "Charley's,"  but  his  eyes 
were  lifeless  and  sunk  well  into  his  head. 
He  was  married,  had  two  children,  was 
over  age,  but  he  had  come  because  the  rest 
of  the  boys  had  come  and  he  couldn't  be 
called  a  "slacker."  He  was  doing  his  thir- 
teenth month  in  France  and  was  top  name 
on  the  battalion  leave  roster. 

One  day  a  telegram  was  handed  to  me 
saying  that  the  mother  of  one  of  my  men 
had  died.  The  message  was  signed  by  the 
chief  of  police  of  his  home  town.  I  sent 
for  the  man,  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  broke 
down.  All  he  could  say  was :  "I  want  to  go 
home."  His  place  on  the  leave  roster  was 
about  the  middle.  I  sent  for  "Charley 
Chaplin,"  explained  the  circumstances  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  change  places  with 
this  other  man. 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


That  wizened,  little,  dried-up  chap,  more 
than  a  year  away  from  his  own  wife 
and  kiddies,  without  a  second's  hesitation, 
said,  "Certainly,  sir,"  knowing  full  well 
that  he  postponed  his  own  leave  six  months. 

What  a  heart  for  a  man  to  possess! 

I  went  to  the  colonel  to  obtain  his  consent 
and  as  I  explained  the  circumstances, 
'Thank  God  the  mud  hasn't  eaten  into  the 
men's  souls,"  he  said.  "Certainly.  Make 
what  arrangements  you  like." 

I  did. 

The  next  morning  the  other  man  went  on 
ten  days'  leave  and  "Charley  Chaplin"  went 
to  the  trenches  with  his  company  and  what 
I  had  feared  happened.  Our  front  line  was 
strafed  with  "Minnies."  Dodging  one, 
poor  "Charley"  ran  into  another.  His 
thigh  was  crushed  by  a  piece  of  casing.  It 
was  too  much  for  the  little  man  from  the 
start.  We  got  him  to  the  dressing  station, 
but  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  his 
little  frame  gave  a  shudder  and  released  his 
big  soul  to  return  where  it  belonged.    One 

229 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


more  British  "Tommy"  remained  in 
France! 

Another  little  thing  I  will  always  re- 
member. Three  of  us  were  going  up  to  a 
front  line  trench  one  day  to  reconnoiter 
new  positions.  The  enemy  were  shelling, 
not  heavily  but  continuously  and  fairly  ac- 
curately. We  didn't  like  it  and  debated 
whether  we  should  go  on.  We  decided  to 
stick  it,  so  pushed  forward.  It  was  a  bright, 
sunny  afternoon  and  it  would  have  been 
good  to  be  alive  had  it  not  been  for  the 
racket;  one  of  those  days  that  make  you 
want  to  roll  and  stretch  out  on  the  grass. 

"Hell  of  a  day  to  die,"  one  of  the  fellows 
said,  and  we  told  him  to  shut  up. 

We  had  stopped  for  a  minute  to  sketch  in 
a  piece  of  trench  and  were  all  three  talking 
and  smoking  when  another  fellow  came 
down  the  trench  as  hard  as  he  could  leg  it. 
He  saw  us  and  slowed  up. 

"They've  got  him,  fellows,  they've  got 
him!"  was  all  he  could  say. 

He  stood  looking  at  us  and  shook  like  a 

230 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


leaf.  It  put  the  wind  up  us  a  bit.  We 
thought  maybe  the  Boches  were  in  the 
trench.  Then  he  asked  for  a  medical  officer 
and  we  knew  somebody  was  wounded.  We 
told  him  where  to  find  what  he  wanted  and 
went  forward  to  see  what  we  could  do. 
Round  a  corner  we  came  across  an  officer 
lying  full  length  on  his  back,  ''out"  for 
good.  A  piece  of  shell  casing  had  caught 
him  in  the  throat  and  chest. 

The  thing  that  struck  me  was  his  left 
breast.  It  was  covered  by  two  rows  of 
service  ribbons,  but,  I  thought,  ''of  what  use 
are  they  to  him  now?"  He  was  gone;  they 
had  not  saved  him.  There  they  lay  on  his 
breast,  little  bits  of  color.  To  us,  they  said: 
"Here  is  a  man  who  has  given  all  his  life- 
time to  his  country;  now  he  has  given  his 
life."  He  was  gone,  and  we  were  the  only 
three  who  saw. 

That  sight  was  vividly  on  my  mind  for 
a  long  time,  and  was  responsible  for  the 
worst  fright  I  ever  had. 

About  a  week  after  this  had  occurred  our 


231 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


battalion  moved  into  the  line  and  our  com- 
pany took  up  a  front-line  position.  To  get 
to  it,  we  had  to  use  that  same  trench.  Every 
time  I  went  through  it,  my  skin  had  little 
goose  pimples  on  it. 

Word  was  sent  up  about  two  o'clock  one 
morning  that  I  was  to  report  to  battalion 
headquarters. 

No  one  was  supposed  to  travel  alone  in 
that  part  of  the  line.  It  was  really  bad. 
But  not  one  of  the  men  was  idle  at  the  time 
so  I  set  out  alone,  knowing  I  had  to  pass 
through  the  trench  that  I  so  hated.  Un- 
known to  me,  another  battalion  had  been 
carrying  up  big  trench  mortar  shells  most 
of  the  night.  They  had  carried  them  so  far, 
then  set  them  down  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  trench  for  us  to  carry  the  rest  of  the 
way.  They  were  big,  weighed  about  one 
hundred  pounds,  and  were  in  cases. 

I  started  down  to  headquarters  in  the 
blackest  of  black  nights.  A  flare  went  up 
every  minute  or  so,  then  darkness  again.    A 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


shell  exploded,  throwing  its  red  glare 
through  the  blackness  for  a  second,  then  it 
would  be  blacker  than  ever.  I  stumbled 
along  till  I  came  to  this  place  where  the 
officer  had  been  knocked  out,  and  blind,  un- 
reasoning fear  took  hold  of  me.  I  could 
see  him  lying  there,  leering  at  me,  as  though 
he  meant  to  grab  my  leg  as  I  passed.  I 
could  almost  feel  his  hand  around  my  ankle, 
then  I  lit  out  as  fast  as  I  could  run,  afraid, 
and  badly  afraid.  The  very  darkness  scared 
me.  I  saw  things  in  every  corner,  terrible 
things  that  only  come  from  a  distorted 
imagination.  I  ran,  and  in  the  darkness 
went  crash!  over  one  of  these  cases  holding 
a  shell.  I  shot  right  across  the  top  of  it, 
picked  myself  up  and  ran  harder  than  ever, 
and  crashed  over  another  one.  That  stopped 
me.  I  nearly  broke  my  legs  and  pain  took 
the  place  of  fear,  so  that  I  sat  on  a  case, 
rubbing  my  shins  and  cursing.  My  shins 
hurt  terribly,  and  I  was  ashamed,  and 
cursed  again  for  being  afraid.    As  I  think 

233 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


of  it  now,  I  can  laugh.  It  was  funny  even 
the  next  day,  but  I  never  traveled  alone  any 
more  in  that  trench  at  night. 

I  often  remember  the  time  we  were  in  a 
certain  sector  holding  our  line  with  out- 
posts. It  was  almost  open  warfare.  The 
ground  was  a  mass  of  stinking,  polluted 
shell  holes.  Wherever  we  could  find  a  dug- 
out, we  put  in  a  Lewis  gun  protected  by 
bombers.  The  trenches  were  all  blown  in; 
in  some  places  so  badly  we  lost  all  trace  of 
them.  We  were  in  the  old  German  line 
and  hardly  knew  where  our  supports  on 
either  side  could  be  found.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  move  during  the  daytime,  so  we 
slept  and  ate  all  day  in  our  dugouts  which 
the  Germans  had  made  for  us,  and  at  night 
we  ventured  forth  to  get  our  rations,  water, 
and  other  necessities  to  keep  us  alive,  slink- 
ing from  place  to  place  in  the  darkness  like 
a  gang  of  street  toughs.  When  daylight 
broke,  we  sneaked  back  to  our  holes  as 
though  afraid  of  the  light. 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Down  in  the  holes  fires  were  started  in 
the  braziers,  which  are  simply  large  cans 
with  holes  punched  in  them.  Until  the  fire 
blazed  up  everyone  choked  with  the  smoke. 
Rubbing  our  eyes,  we  stood  around  and 
swore  until  the  smell  of  bacon  overcame  the 
effects  of  the  smoke,  tea  water  bubbled 
merrily,  singing  its  little  song,  and  then  we 
were  happy  again.  Everyone  had  breakfast 
and  all  was  quiet  except  for  the  snores  of 
exhausted  men. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  lolled  a  sentry, 
watching  the  ground  ahead  of  him  for  any 
movement.  Once  in  awhile  he  would  duck 
into  the  stairs  as  a  shell  came  roaring  his 
way  to  burst  on  the  roof  of  the  dugout, 
while  thirty  feet  below  a  man  turned  lazily 
in  his  sleep,  disturbed  for  a  moment,  and 
then  continued  snoring. 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  sat  the  officer 
on  duty  sleepily  playing  ^Tatience,"  his 
head  dropping  forward  now  and  then  to  be 
recovered  with  a  jerk.    So  the  day  passed, 

235 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


for  the  mud  hindered  any  offensive.  It  was 
winter. 

Along  about  half-past  three  on  this  day 
everybody  began  to  stir.  My  orderly  took 
a  can  and  slipped  out  of  the  dugout  in  the 
gathering  dusk  to  get  water  for  tea — always 
the  eternal  tea.  For  two  nights  it  had 
tasted  foul.  It  was  almost  impossible  to 
drink  it.  I  asked  him  where  he  got  it.  ''In 
a  shell  hole,"  he  said.  So  I  asked  him  to 
take  a  look  at  the  shell  hole.  He  came  back 
in  about  half  an  hour  and  in  a  very  apolo- 
getic tone  said  he  was  sorry,  but  that  he 
couldn't  make  tea  until  it  got  darker  so  that 
he  could  look  for  another  shell  hole.  The 
one  we  had  been  using,  it  seemed,  had  a 
dead  Gordon  Highlander  and  two  Boches 
in  it  and  he  supposed  I  wouldn't  want  to 
use  that  water  any  more.    I  didn't. 

I  remember  another  man,  in  the  dim  days 
of  long  ago  when  the  war  began.  He  was 
mobilized  with  our  company.  He  was  a 
slight  fellow  and  not  very  tall,  and  full  of 

236 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


the  very  old  devil;  Jimmy,  by  name.  He 
was  the  first  man  to  come  before  our  com- 
pany commander  for  punishment,  he  was 
the  first  man  in  the  battalion  to  be  tried  by 
the  colonel,  he  was  the  first  drunk,  and  the 
first  man  to  leave  camp  without  a  pass  and 
not  come  back  till  he  got  good  and  ready. 
In  fact,  he  taught  us  all  how  not  to  be  sol- 
diers, and  made  a  general  nuisance  of  him- 
self until  the  poor  old  colonel  tore  his  hair 
in  despair.  They  locked  him  in  the  guard 
room  and  he  got  out.  We  all  laughed  and 
encouraged  him  to  some  new  stunt  and  the 
officers  became  frantic. 

Then  came  our  orders  to  go  across  from 
Canada,  and  he  behaved  himself  on  board 
the  transport.  In  England  before  we  had 
been  ten  days  in  camp,  he  disappeared. 
The  military  police  brought  him  back  from 
Ireland.  They  had  a  lively  trip,  but  landed 
him  in  camp  all  right  and  a  court  martial 
placed  him  in  detention  barracks,  where  he 
stayed  until  a  week  before  we  crossed  to 

237 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


France.  When  we  did  cross,  the  colonel  left 
him  behind  because  he  had  been  in  a  mili- 
tary prison  instead  of  training  with  the 
men.  When  we  got  off  the  boat  in  France, 
so  did  Jimmy. 

The  company  commander  nearly  had  a 
spasm.  So  did  the  colonel.  And  the  com- 
pany laughed.  They  gave  him  a  rifle  and 
equipment — he  had  brought  none — and  he 
marched  to  the  line  with  us,  happy  at  last. 

In  the  trenches  he  was  a  glutton  for  work. 
No  mud  was  too  thick,  no  job  too  hard  or 
dangerous.  Nothing  bothered  him.  He 
always  had  a  smile  and  a  joke  or  a  song. 
When  we  were  out  of  the  line  he  spent  his 
time  in  the  estaminet  or  sleeping.  So  he 
lived  for  four  or  five  months  happy  and 
content. 

Then  came  the  episode  of  the  craters  at 
St.  Eloi. 

The  battalion  relieved  troops  who  had 
consolidated  some  mine  craters  which  had 
been  blown  a  few  hours  before.    The  Ger- 

238 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


man  artillery  turned  loose  with  everything 
they  had  in  range.  It  was  absolute  hell. 
Men  were  buried,  blown  up  in  the  air  and 
buried  again.  Rifles  were  rendered  useless 
by  the  mud.  The  men  lay  there  waiting 
for  their  time  to  come,  for  signals  were 
down  and  it  was  impossible  to  establish 
communication  with  the  rear.  Man  after 
man  ^^went  out"  until  our  strength  was  so 
impaired  it  was  impossible  to  resist  should 
an  attack  be  made. 

Some  of  the  men  went  crazy  and  tried  to 
walk  out  of  that  hell,  and  we  saw  them  no 
more.  Through  it  all  lay  Jimmy,  saying 
nothing,  although  nobody  could  have 
heard  him,  the  din  was  so  terrific.  The 
tongues  and  lips  of  the  men  were  swollen 
and  they  crept  about  pleading  with  each 
other  for  water. 

Jimmy's  officer  beckoned  to  him.  He 
crawled  over.  His  officer  handed  him  a 
message  marked  '^Battalion  Headquarters." 
It  was  a  report  on  the  situation,  and  Jimmy 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


was  off.  No  rifle,  no  equipment.  He  threw 
it  away  as  superfluous  and  ran — ran  for 
dear  life — splashing,  falling  and  tumbling 
through  the  rotten  mud.  It  held  him  back 
and  he  cursed  it;  he  struggled  for  breath, 
but  pushed  ahead.  He  was  knocked  over  by 
the  concussion  of  an  exploding  shell.  Half 
crazy,  he  picked  himself  up  and  staggered 
on  his  way,  ''Battalion  Headquarters"  burn- 
ing into  his  brain.  He  had  to  get  there,  and 
get  there  he  did,  but  he  was  a  maniac  at  the 
last. 

To-day  Jimmy  is  still  in  hospital,  the 
quietest,  mildest-mannered  person  you 
would  care  to  meet,  almost  feminine  in  his 
mildness.  He  will  ask  you  if  you  want  to 
see  ''Battalion  Headquarters."  That  is  all 
he  knows.  There  is  hope,  though,  that  some 
day  he  will  return  to  his  old  natural  self. 
At  the  present,  he  is  trying  to  remember 
where  he  was  when  he  left  for  "Battalion 
Headquarters"  so  he  can  go  back  and  re- 
port to  his  officer. 

240 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


Then  there  was  cheery  little  Tommy,  my 
pal  for  a  long  time,  but  he  went  the  way 
of  the  rest.  We  were  in  a  quiet  sector  of 
the  line  in  what  is  known  as  ^'peacetime 
trenches."  Tommy  was  on  sentry  go.  It 
was  a  nice,  warm  day,  and  we  were  talking 
of  the  good  and  hard  times  we  had  seen 
and  of  those  who  had  gone,  either  'West" 
or  to  Blighty.  Then,  as  usual,  the  old  topic 
came  up;  what  would  we  do  after  the  war? 

^Well,  you  can  say  all  you  like  about 
your  rovin'  dispositions  and  never  settlin' 
down,"  said  Tommy,  "but  here's  one  guy 
with  his  belly  full  of  rovin'.  The  next  war 
sees  me  at  the  station  waving  handkerchiefs 
and  hurraying  when  the  boys  go  away,"  and 
he  got  up  to  the  firing  platform  to  look 
through  the  periscope.  Finished,  he  turned 
around  and  said:  "When  this  is  over,  all  I 
want  is  peace  and  quiet  on  a  few  acres  of 
land  so  I  can  grow " 

We  never  found  out  what  Tommy 
wanted  to  grow.    We  had  been  sitting  with 

24,1 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


our  backs  to  him  when  he  tumbled  into  the 
trench,  a  hole  through  the  back  of  his  head. 
He  had  forgotten  to  step  down  from  the 
firing  platform,  dreaming  his  dream,  and 
he  had  got  his  wish — ^^peace  and  quiet." 

So  they  go,  one  by  one,  but  always  some 
one  must  pay  the  price,  and  that  daily,  so 
that  those  who  come  after,  whether  they  be 
of  our  own  blood,  may  live  in  a  world  where 
such  things  as  war  may  never  occur  again. 

Here  at  home,  safe  for  awhile,  among 
my  old  friends,  I  sometimes  dream.  Sitting 
by  myself  in  the  subway  or  on  a  train,  I 
let  my  mind  run  riot  among  the  many  things 
I  have  seen. 

I  see  a  civilian  hanging  to  a  strap  in  a 
subway  car,  one  of  our  assimilated  citi- 
zens, and  as  I  look  at  him  something  in 
the  way  of  a  vision  comes  to  me.  I  see 
his  clothes  change  to  khaki  and  I  see  him 
six  months  later  in  a  trench,  on  duty,  hun- 
gry perhaps,  but  he  is  there  in  France,  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  of  the  trench  as  non- 
chalantly as  he  is  now  swinging  on  the  strap 
in  the  subway. 

242 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


I  can  see  troops,  endless  lines  of  khaki 
troops,  moving  along  one  of  the  usual  tree- 
lined,  cobbled  roads  of  the  French  country- 
side. Ahead  of  them  is  a  crackling  mass  of 
flame,  a  cloud  of  smoke  hanging  over  it  all. 
They  march  toward  it.  They  march 
through  it.  The  flames  die  away.  Night 
comes,  and  off  that  hill  come  back  some  of 
those  who  marched  into  the  flame,  crippled 
and  tired  and  longing  for  rest.  On  the  hill 
itself  are  those  who  won't  come  back;  those 
who  have  paid  the  price,  lying  in  queer 
positions,  some  on  their  hands  and  knees 
like  a  Mohammedan  in  prayer;  others  like 
a  Mohammedan  who  is  tired  of  prayer  and 
has  rolled  on  his  back;  still  others  who 
have  lain  down  as  though  to  rest. 

It  is  for  those  who  have  lain  down  that 
we  must  go  on  and  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  going  down  the  other 
side  are  those  who  have  gone  through  the 
flame  unscathed,  happy  and  pride  filled  in 
a  job  well  done. 

I  can  remember  many  things  of  my  years 

243 


OVER  THERE  AND  BACK 


at  the  front.  Some  I  like  to  recall.  Some 
of  my  memories  are  happy  ones.  Some 
bring  a  chuckle  even  now.  Others  are  sad; 
grewsome.  But  through  them  all  shines 
one;  the  memory  of  a  mother's  letters  to 
her  son;  nothing  in  them  of  worry,  nothing 
of  the  troubles  at  home,  nothing  but  love 
and  pride  and  encouragement,  and  the  hope 
that  soon  we  would  be  with  each  other 
again. 

THE  END. 


244 


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By  DONALD  HANKEY 

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As  Terribly  True  as  Verestchagin's  Paintings 

Under  Fire  (feu) 

By  HENRI  BARBUSSE 

Translated  from  the  French  by  FITZWATER  WRAY 

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G.  FREDERIC    LEES 

With  a  Preface  by  HENRY  BORDEAUX 


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